Who Would You Choose? Read online

  And anything that took her mind off Sam Packard was a welcome distraction.

  It was something in the business report. Something about Crackerbox Publications. Something she thought would tie in well with Penny Lightly’s pitch.

  So she’d left an early-morning text for Penny to meet her at the office at noon. And now, after she left Miss Muffet’s Tea Shop, while Luke drove her downtown, she had a chance to follow up on the story from the morning newspaper’s business section.

  Penny was already at the office when Marge arrived.

  “Maybe you’ve heard of Crackerbox?”

  “Don’t they publish those Benny Bunny books for little kids? Where Benny is a detective who solves mysteries at his day care?”

  “That’s the one. That, and the ‘Wizard Works’ series—science stories for young children. And lots more.”

  Penny nodded. “I’ve seen them. They’re a major publisher of children’s picture books, aren’t they?”

  “Right. And they’ve just announced they’re acquiring a company that manufactures book-themed products for children. Characters from kids’ books on tee shirts, kids’ costumes and party supplies, mugs, novelty pencils. That sort of thing. I took the article from this morning’s Times.” She took the clipping out of her bag and handed it to Penny.

  She waited a couple of minutes while Penny read quickly through the article.

  Then she went on.

  “The roll-out of the new products will be a week from this Friday. Right after our big issue hits the newsstands. We’ll all be in recovery mode then, and I’ll be in the mood for a party. You will be, too.”

  Penny nodded.

  “The Crackerbox launch will be at The Spire. That’s a new event spot in Brooklyn, at the top of that fancy new commercial skyscraper in the downtown business section. Just opened a couple of months ago.”

  “I don’t live very far from there and I watched the building go up. I was hoping I’d get to go up there some time, see the city from way up high.”

  “Here’s your chance. We’re going to go together. Crackerbox may not have thought to include a fashion magazine on their guest list, but I’m sure I can get us a couple of invitations. I’ll make some phone calls. I liked the proposal you sent me, and I see a possible children’s fashion piece here that would tie in nicely with it.”

  It was a pleasure to see Penny’s face as she reacted to Marge’s approval. All she said was, “Thank you, Marge.” She was excited not only to have had the first pitch she’d made on her own get approved by Marge, but to have it be followed up immediately by its expansion into something bigger was a great confidence builder for the rookie editor.

  She was eager to get started. Marge sat down with her, they went over what they knew about Crackerbox and its planned acquisition and product expectations. They strategized the form Penny’s piece would follow. They talked over the length of the piece, the angle it would take, and a schedule for getting it into print. Marge got a kick out of watching the girl tackle her new assignment.

  Her name suits her, she thought. A bright penny. And she writes with a light touch. A nice combination.

  Marge hoped the rigors of the work and the years ahead of her wouldn’t take off any of that shine. She wished her well, and Penny went off to get started.

  Marge spent the next three hours catching up on marketing figures, ad revenues, other business matters. There was so much to keep up with. So much advertising was moving over to digital platforms, and Marge had decided to have Lady Fair take the lead in joining up with some of the fashion brands, taking the initiative to help them create digital advertising campaigns. In addition, the industry was beginning to reach its market through social media, creating an entirely new area of competition for Lady Fair—and for Marge—to deal with. The magazine’s digital department had been growing at a remarkable rate and it was becoming clear they were going to need to hire more people and to expand their physical space some more.

  It was almost five o’clock before Marge realized she was exhausted. Realized she hadn’t eaten since her early breakfast with Bridey. Realized, too, that she hadn’t slept last night. A headache had crept up on her, her eyes felt sandpapered, and she noticed a kind of odd thumping in her chest that was a brand new sensation. Also, an alarming tremor in her thumbs.

  She dialed Jerry’s cell phone.

  “Where are you?” she asked, when he answered.

  “Here. At your place. Working on a brief. And waiting for you. Where are you?”

  “At the office. And I’m dog tired. I think I need some pampering.”

  “That’s what I’m here for, honey. Don’t do anything else tonight. Come home. I’ll cook something and get you to bed early.”

  “You’re such a good guy, Jerry.”

  “You work too hard, Marge.”

  “Probably. But there’s so much to be done.”

  “I know.”

  * * * *

  Jerry had thawed out a couple of steaks and had them peppered and ready to grill. By the time Marge arrived home, a big bowl of salad and a bottle of red wine were already on the table. He thought of lighting candles, too, but had decided that was pretentious. Good food and rest were what Marge needed, not romance. And indeed, that was exactly what Marge did need and want, a quiet, restful evening, curled up on the sofa with Jerry and maybe a little TV, a bowl of ice cream, and early to bed. She really was exhausted.

  * * * *

  She slept till nine thirty and when she woke up, Jerry was already on the sofa in the living room, working on his laptop. There were note pages all around him and he was looking intense. His hair was mussed—obviously not yet brushed—and he was still in his pajama bottoms. No top.

  In the kitchen, she poured a cup of coffee and took a doughnut out of the bread box. The morning paper was on the counter and she glanced briefly at the front-page headlines while she ate the doughnut. Then she carried coffee and paper into the living room and sat down next to Jerry on the sofa.

  “Okay to bother you?”

  “Oh, God, yes! I need a break.” He leaned back and ran his hands through his hair, as though that would help organize his thoughts.

  “Thanks for letting me sleep.”

  “Feeling better?”

  “Much.”

  He put an arm around her, pulled her close and kissed her cheek.

  “You were talking in your sleep.”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “I sort of remember. What was I saying?”

  Jerry laughed. “You were giggling. Something about a necklace. You kept saying, ‘Put it away! Put it away!’ And ‘Look. It’s a horse.’ Didn’t make any sense to me.”

  Now she remembered her dream, and she turned her face away from him. She picked up some of his notes and pretended to find them interesting. “Dreams never make any sense,” she said. “Tell me about this case.”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “Yeah. One of those international things—a British and Swiss investment outfit along with some Middle East money, they’re buying a big stake in an oil company in Kazakhstan. Using a US partnership with an off-shore component, giving the Kazakhs a chance to pick up a chunk of cash—a few billion –with a fifteen-year buyback provision. The buyback is a cover-up. The Kazakhs need cash and this whole transaction is really a loan to them. All sorts of geo-political and anti-trust issues. The regulators are all over it.”

  “I’m already bored.”

  “I warned you.”

  “Is the deal legal?”

  “Sure. At least, probably. But it’s politically complicated, so all the parties want to keep it low key.”

  “Which one of these players is your client?”

  “Our firm is representing the Swiss. And your friend, Sam Packard, he’
s with the regulators. The stock market will pay attention. No one else.”

  “Why don’t you have one of your associates do the brief? Today is Sunday. You ought to take the day off.”

  “It’s just a narrow legal point the judge asked for and I already have all the information. I can get it together quickly.”

  “You work too hard,” she said.

  He laughed. “Look who’s talking. You’re the one who works too hard. Makes you talk in your sleep. A sure sign of stress.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. You said I was giggling.”

  “No, it’s true, Marge. You have been working too hard. I see the signs. You’re not eating right, you’ve lost some weight. You’re not sleeping well. And last night wasn’t the first time. When this case is over, we should try to get away for a while.”

  “When will that be?”

  “I don’t know. Could be we wind it up quickly. Or it could take a couple of months, maybe more. But think about it. About getting away for a while. Maybe by then it will be January, February. We could do some skiing in Utah. Go to Park City for the Sundance Festival. Or something. Maybe the Caribbean, go somewhere warm and sunny. Let’s think about it.”

  She snuggled up against him.

  “Okay, Jerry. I’ll think about it. I will. Really.”

  Chapter Six

  But getting away would not be easy. At least, not for a while. Marge could leave her desk and she could walk out of her office, but she couldn’t get away from her job. Fashion Week in Milan was about to take her to Italy for four days, followed immediately by the shows in Paris, days that were a dawn-to-midnight frenzy of activity. On her return, there were people to hire, others to fire, production problems, legal matters to review—a nasty copyright fight with one of her favorite authors, and a contract dispute with the company that ran the employees’ cafeteria. There were interviews to give, TV appearances to fulfill, red carpet events, and social engagements, some obligatory and some too irresistibly fun to “regret.” Everyone wanted her attention. And her time. And all of it had to be squeezed into these last days before the big issue closed.

  Emotions always flared at this time of the year; the big annual issue exhausted everyone and the nervous breakdowns they promised themselves “when this is all over” would typically begin to erupt ahead of the scheduled publication date. Temper tantrums could be heard down the hallways and discreet sobbing behind closed office doors. Good friends lost all patience with each other and became “sworn enemies,” at least until the kiss-and-make-up phase that inevitably followed these storm sessions. It was Marge’s job to keep things running smoothly even as irritability meters dialed up higher and higher, and the entire staff relied on her to keep everyone from killing everyone. The staff relied on her because her hand on the tiller was famously steady and reassuring; Marge Webster had never been known to lose her temper and she always brought everyone through their emotional eruptions with a light touch and a gentle-but-firm solution that allowed them to remember that they really were grown-ups and a sense of perspective would get them past the immediate chaos. She had an eagle-eye for trouble and words of wisdom for everyone. She was a four-star general and a tender mama all in one good-looking package. She was talented, smart, and sane.

  In other words, Marge was perfect.

  Only, of course, she wasn’t. Only the angels are perfect, and Marge was no angel. She had her blind spots. And the blindest one of all was her inability to dial her energy down and take a rest. So once again, she’d brought the big issue to fruition, and she was showered with praise, and she was told again how no one else could have done it so successfully, and they all went out to celebrate. She enjoyed her work so thoroughly, was so passionate about what she could do with Lady Fair, she didn’t even realize she’d been working eighteen hours a day, going at maximum effort for weeks, definitely not eating right, and lately had been living on the canapés and crudités that were the fare at many of the events at which her presence was necessary. She was always too busy at these events, making useful professional connections and keeping up the obligatory small talk, to notice that she was practically starving herself.

  * * * *

  It was at the Crackerbox launch that the wake-up call finally arrived.

  The event venue was a penthouse with wrap-around glass and heart-stopping views of rivers and bridges and miles of Brooklyn’s new growth superimposed on its historic neighborhoods. Way down below, tiny vehicles and even tinier human beings were almost invisible, and in the distance, across the river, the skyscrapers of Manhattan’s financial district rose imperiously, topped by the brand new Freedom Tower taking its place only a block beyond the old Woolworth Building, once—a hundred years ago—the tallest building in the world, the two structures together a measure of New York’s growth as a financial and industrial giant.

  Noisy chatter and music and the clink of glasses and the trill of laugher filled the space. Samples of Crackerbox’s new products were displayed everywhere, and near the entrance, a table with goody bags filled with swag—novelty items, tee shirts, cards and coupons and fliers and pamphlets, all advertising the new venture. Crackerbox’s officers and reps, the invited guests, and the uniformed catering staff were jammed into a swirling mass, and it was into this giddy, boozy, energetic crowd that Marge and Penny arrived. Marge had come along because she wanted to observe the young writer and see how she handled herself in this setting, but she’d been going since early that morning, had already fielded a half a dozen “crises,” panic attacks, and other disasters, and had not had a chance to eat since the bagel she’d nibbled on while Luke drove her to the office ten hours earlier. She’d had a bad night—another one—imagining Jerry and Sam demanding her attention while squaring off against each other, along with the fantasy of herself being called into some celestial principal’s office and being made to account for her wicked dreams. She was an exhausted set of nerve endings, and hadn’t yet realized, she was on the verge of a collapse.

  From a tray of wineglasses that passed by her, a small, round, silver tray carried by a cute young man—surely an out-of-work actor picking up a few bucks between auditions—she plucked a glass. She did a quick survey across the mob of heads, saw that the nearest bit of food was on a platter of something shrimp-y looking being carried by another young man across the room, and planned to spear a couple when it swam closer to her. She also saw Penny, nearby, in wide-eyed conversation with an older man Marge recognized as a member of Crackerbox’s board of directors. Marge smiled to herself. Good girl, Penny, she said to herself. I like the girl’s style.

  And it was right at that moment that everything, shrimp and wine and talking heads and river views and ambient music all swirled together into a molten mass, like a four-year-old’s finger paint masterpiece. She felt the blood in her feet turn hot and begin to boil up through her body. She knew she was about to faint, and a blur of panic filled her head. Oh, God! Not a scene. Not here! She dropped down onto a low hassock-like seat that—mercifully!—was right behind her.

  To her amazement, Penny materialized out of nowhere and was kneeling right next to her.

  Penny’s whisper was urgent.

  “What can I do?”

  “Get me out of here,” Marge whispered back.

  With a single unobtrusive gesture, Penny took the wineglass from Marge’s fingers, set it on a nearby table and had Marge up on her feet, her arm under Marge’s arm. As she steered her toward the elevator, she snagged a passing waiter with her free hand, and with a decisive nod toward Marge, said a single word to him, under her breath.

  “Water!”

  Sharp young man, and he was off like a shot to the bar and back with a glass of water before the elevator arrived.

  “Drink this,” Penny said as the doors closed behind them. In the lobby she got Marge into one of the lounge chairs, took the glass from her fingers and put it on the floor next to
the chair. “Get your head down, between your knees.” Marge obeyed and hung her head way down, till her blood was back where it should be and the danger of fainting had passed.

  Penny was leaning over her.

  “Jeez, Marge. You okay? You scared the hell out of me.”

  Marge took a couple of deep breaths. She mentally checked her faculties, her heartbeat was calming down, and the fizziness in her head was subsiding. She wiggled her fingers and they seemed to be okay.

  “I guess. Lucky for me you were there. Quick thinking, Penny. I owe you a big thank you.”

  “I just saw you go all pale and weak-kneed.”

  “I’m okay now. Embarrassed. But okay.” She gave Penny a little smile.

  Penny smiled, too. “Have you had anything to eat today?”

  “I guess not. Some days just get so busy. And I forget to eat.”

  “Why don’t you sit here for a bit? I’ll run outside and get you something.”

  “No, I’ll be okay. My driver’s here.” She stood up—and immediately things began to swim again and she dropped back onto the chair.

  “Whoops. Maybe not,” she said.

  “You stay here. I’ll find a diner or deli or something. Be back in a sec.”

  Marge didn’t protest anymore and Penny was gone through the revolving doors.

  Marge got out her phone and dialed her doctor’s office.

  Thank God for concierge service. I’ve been putting this off too long.

  In minutes, she had an appointment to see Dr. Diaz, first thing in the morning. Then she closed her eyes, put her head back, and rested until Penny was back, only ten minutes later, with a bottle of juice and a couple of protein power bars.

  “You did good,” she said to Penny, letting herself be ungrammatical.

  Penny smiled. “Thank the Girl Scouts. Got my first-aid badge when I was fourteen.” She opened one of the bars, handed it to Marge. “Here. You’d better get this down,” and uncapped the bottle of juice. “And this, too.” And after Marge had eaten and drunk, Penny said, “You okay now? Ready to get to your car? Do you think you ought to get to the ER?”