Delicious! (12 page)

“I feel like such a fool.” Jake watched Richard leave. “How could I have been so blind? I knew that ads were down.” He was making a visible effort to control himself. “I wish Sammy were here. It’s unfortunate that he chose this particular moment to be traipsing around Turkey. We could use some of his lovable energy right about now. He’d calm everyone down. Did you call him?”

“I’ll try.” I called his hotel in Istanbul, but the clerk informed me that he was up in the mountains and could not be reached.

“I left a message,” I told Jake, “but they didn’t know when he’d be back.”

“Damn!” Jake sounded bereft. “I just wish he were here; nothing gets him down.” Then he folded his hands on the desk and looked up at me. “But that’s not what I want to talk to you about.”

It was only noon, but in the three hours since Young Arthur’s call, Jake had aged; every one of his fifty-four years was now engraved across his face. I patted Sherman, thinking that after today I might never see him again. Or Richard. Or Sammy. I felt sick, and for a panicked moment
I was afraid I was going to throw up on Jake’s desk. I concentrated on swallowing the feeling.

“So do you want to?” Jake’s voice seemed far away.

“Want to what?” I hadn’t been listening.

Jake shook his head. “Focus, please. I was saying that Young Arthur wants to keep someone on to honor the Guarantee. He thinks cutting it off so suddenly would be bad for the company’s image and would somehow hurt the other magazines. Totally irrational, if you want my opinion … Anyway, I told him if anyone was going to do it, you’d be the one.”

“They’ll keep paying me even though they’ve killed the book?” It sounded crazy. “How long can that possibly last?”

“He didn’t say,” Jake admitted, “and it’s a good question. I don’t imagine it’ll be forever. But people hang on to their back issues, and Young Arthur wants to keep the readers happy. There was something about throwing the baby out with the bathwater, or maybe he has fantasies of bringing it back when the economy improves.”

I don’t know what he saw on my face, but something made him add, “You’re a good writer, Billie, but you don’t exactly have a huge body of work under your belt. Finding a new job is going to be a challenge in this economy, and it’s always easier to find one when you have one. Freelancing is tough. What have you got to lose by staying on awhile? This entire staff is going to be out there looking for jobs. I’ll do what I can for everyone, but it’s not going to be easy.”

I thought about all the editors, copy editors, and art people knocking on doors, begging for jobs. I wondered about Sammy. Then I thought about Paul, who had two kids, and the copy editor, who had three. How long did unemployment benefits last? I was suddenly exhausted by it all. I couldn’t think. Jake watched me, waiting.

The silence stretched. “I’ll take that as a yes.” Jake’s voice sounded firmer. He got up from his chair and paced around the room. “Now, can we get back to work? There’s a lot to do.”

The phone began to ring almost immediately. I hadn’t thought about
the press.
Delicious!
was a beloved institution, and the magazine’s demise made news around the world. Reporters kept calling Jake, begging him to tell what he knew and when he had known it. When the reporters couldn’t get him, they questioned me, and over the next day, I discovered that endings have their own odd thrill. In the mania of the moment, it’s possible to forget what you are losing.

Most of us spent that first night in the office, drinking our way through the liquor closet. By morning the office had a rakish look, less grand old mansion than post-rush fraternity shambles. As we taped up the last of the boxes, Jake ordered coffee and the doughnuts filled with chocolate mousse that Jacques Torres made especially for him. We were trying to sober up on sugar and caffeine when Maggie issued an unexpected invitation. “Come to my place tonight,” she told everyone, “and we’ll have a proper wake.”

PEOPLE
’
S HOUSES ALWAYS
surprise me, but in my wildest imagining I’d never have expected Maggie to live in a cozy old Brooklyn brown-stone filled with rock posters from the eighties—Bruce Springsteen, Guns N’ Roses, Talking Heads. I was staring up at a Cyndi Lauper poster when she staggered over.

“Girls just want to have fun.” She could barely get the words out. “They’re real, if you were wondering.”

Jake gave her a sidelong glance. “How drunk are you?” He looked a little worried.

“Very,” Maggie replied, “and I intend to stay that way for quite a while. Do you know how many years I worked at that damn place?”

“You know I’m there for you if you need me.” His voice was low, and he put his arm around her. I averted my eyes; it was an oddly intimate moment.

“I’ll be okay.” She pushed him away and looked defiantly up at him. “I’m going to start a catering business.”

Jake burst out laughing. “You? People would pay good money to keep you away from their parties.”

“I am offended.” She sniffed. “I may not be Jake Newberry, but I can certainly cook well enough to please the Park Avenue set.”

“Oh, come on, Mags. I’m not casting aspersions on your cooking. But you in the service business? Think about it.” Personally, I kind of liked the idea of Maggie kowtowing to women meaner than she was, but I kept the thought to myself. At the moment we were trying to be kind to one another.

“What about you?” Maggie challenged Valente. “What grand plans have you conceived?”

He looked embarrassed. He fiddled with his glass and admitted he’d already gotten calls from
New York
magazine,
Food & Wine
, and Williams-Sonoma; he was booked solid for the next two months. Richard confessed that he too had been fielding phone calls by the dozen. “And you, Diana.” Maggie’s voice had an edge of bitterness. “I suppose that dozens of fabulous opportunities have come your way as well?”

Diana’s usually open face closed up. “I’ve been waiting for the right moment to tell you this.” She was clearly uncomfortable, and she looked directly at me. “I actually got this job offer a while ago. Ned’s going to work at a start-up in Palo Alto, and there’s an opening in the test kitchen at
Sunset
magazine. I was confused about what to do, but Mr. Pickwick just made my mind up for me.”

“What?” I was horrified to find that I was struggling to hold back tears. I should be happy for Diana; she had a job. But she was the one person I’d thought I’d get to keep.

I gathered an armload of dirty dishes and retreated to the kitchen. I filled the sink with scalding water, squirted in the soap, and plunged my hands into the wet heat.

“I’m sorry you’re upset.” Diana had quietly followed me. “You’re my friend, and I should have told you. But I really didn’t think I was going to go.”

“No, it’s great. Really. When I get over how much I’m going to miss you, I’ll be glad you’ve got a job. But who’s going to bug me about my clothes now?”

She threw her arms around me. “Don’t think you’re getting rid of me that easily.”

I hugged back, drenching her in the process.

“I’m going to email so often you’ll hardly know I’m gone,” she promised. “And I’m not about to give up on that gingerbread recipe.… ”

My key still worked, but the mansion was dark as I climbed the stairs and so silent that even my quiet footsteps boomed through the empty building. When Jake said I’d be the one, I didn’t quite get that I’d be the only one.

I could not have imagined these eerily empty halls, the thunderous
silence, the vacant offices littered with trash. In the five days we’d been gone, most of the furniture had been moved out, but they’d left broken pieces, and here and there I’d come upon an upturned chair missing a leg or two. Piles of abandoned photographs lay in dejected heaps in every room, and in the halls big plastic dumpsters overflowed with old notebooks, broken staplers, and forgotten office supplies. Piles of unused boxes sat waiting to be filled. The air smelled like damp paper, and hanging over everything was an odd odor of decay.

Most of the office doors were open; crisscrossed yellow tape shouting C
HECKED
+ E
MPTY
stretched across each threshold. It was dark, so dark. Sammy’s door was closed, but tape with the word U
NSANITIZED
in huge letters had been posted there, as if vicious germs waited inside, poised to leap out and attack. I walked down the hallway, futilely flipping switches until it finally hit me: Someone had taken every accessible lightbulb.

They’d left a couple in my office, and it was a relief to watch the lights come stuttering on. But, beyond it, Jake’s empty office loomed. I kept listening for Sherman, but of course he wasn’t here.

How could I pretend this was a normal workday? Still, I began to open the mail I’d found spilled across the lobby floor.

“Dear
Delicious!
,” read the first one. “Is it true that you’ll continue to honor your Guarantee? If so, I would like to point out that there was nothing wild about the ‘wild mushrooms’ in the turkey stuffing featured in your final issue. Shiitake, as you must surely know, are now widely cultivated.… ”

And exactly what would you like me to do about that? I wondered crossly. It turned out that what Mrs. Bowman wanted was a refund because she felt tricked by our “false assertion.”

A flash of rage surged through me. “Dear Mrs. Bowman, you could easily have gathered your own mushrooms and substituted them for the ones called for in the recipe.” I stopped typing. What did I care? I deleted the words one by one.

“Dear Mrs. Bowman.” I was typing more slowly. “I am so sorry that you were unhappy with our mushroom stuffing. If you will send us your
receipts, we will cheerfully refund your money. We want our readers to have happy memories of a great magazine. All of us here at
Delicious!
wish you very happy holidays.”

I sensed my phantom coworkers gathered around me, silently applauding. Then I picked up the next letter. I’d give everyone their money back. Why not?

Tomorrow, I thought, I’ll buy lightbulbs. And some flowers. I’ll bring in a teakettle. It’s not so bad.…

A skittering sound came from the hall, and my heart began to race. I jumped up to peer fearfully into the corridor. Empty. Was that a mouse’s tail disappearing around the corner? Or was it only my imagination? I sat down, trying to calm myself. I was being ridiculous, I knew that, but I needed a human voice to put this in perspective.

I thought about calling Aunt Melba, anticipating the conversation. She’d be sympathetic. She’d say, once again, how much Dad missed me. She’d suggest, again, that I quit the job and come home. No thanks.

As I was thinking that, my phone rang, and I looked down to see that it was Dad.

“Just checking in on you,” he said. “This has to be hard. Things were going so well, and now this. I wanted to make sure you’re still coming home for Thanksgiving.”

“I wanted to talk to you about that. Would you mind terribly if I didn’t come?”

“Yes.” His voice was quiet. “I would mind terribly.” He heaved a deep and audible sigh. “I miss you. I worry about you. I’d like to lay eyes on you. But I would understand.”

“Really?”

“You think I don’t know how you feel?” He sounded almost angry. “You think I don’t understand why you ran away? I don’t like it, but I understand it. And I know why you need to keep us at arm’s length. If you think coming home right now will be too hard, well, you need to do what you think is best for yourself.”

“Really?” I said again, a bit stunned by his generosity. “Thanks, Dad. I love you.”

“I love you too. And I’ll come—we’ll come—as soon as you’re ready. Say the word.”

I hung up the phone and found that I was crying. “Stop it!” I lectured myself. “Just stop it!” I knew that what I needed was the familiar querulous voice of Mrs. Cloverly.

“Is something wrong, dear?” My call had startled her. When I explained that the magazine had closed, I heard a sad, watery little sigh. I knew how she felt; her world had just grown smaller.

“But the Guarantee will continue as before.” I tried to sound jolly.

She sounded hopeful. “I can still call?”

“Absolutely.” I was surprised by how much more cheerful she’d made me feel. “I’ll be here every day.”

But every day the gloomy building grew more neglected, and it was hard to keep my spirits up. I understood that Young Arthur wanted someone there to keep the building from seeming completely abandoned, but by the third Monday, the empty rooms with their yellow tape seemed even more forbidding, and Jake’s dark office was a heavy, reproachful presence. The odd smell I’d noticed had grown stronger, and by Wednesday I was imagining whole families of mice rotting inside the walls. Walking down the hall, leaving for the long Thanksgiving weekend, my foot brushed one of the piles of forgotten photographs. It slithered toward me like a snake, and I went running down the stairs and out the door, slamming it behind me. I was relieved to have a few days away.