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Monday morning, Fordham stared at her cluttered desk. Her office was her domain, and she’d tried her best to create an inspiring atmosphere. She painted the walls a soothing sage green, bought a pair of oak bookcases that she filled with everything from vintage dictionaries to her favorite Golden Books, and hung an antique mirror that Grandma Sadie had given her when she moved into her first dorm room. Framed pictures of family and friends stood on top of her bookcases, reminding her to smile during the rough spots and be thankful that shoulder pads were no longer a fashion necessity.
But she still couldn’t shake Whitty’s news about Kara Gittelman and Gil. It was too close to home. People would talk, and that couldn’t be anything but humiliating. She didn’t like messes. For the first time in a long time, she wanted to be anywhere other than where she was.
Despite that, she was grateful for her job. She’d searched for months and had come up with nothing in her area. The job market was slow, and no one in the suburbs was keen on hiring a single mother who’d been out of the work force longer than she’d been in it. Even though she was getting some support from Gil, it wasn’t enough, and it seemed unfair to make Whitty wait for her wallet to catch up with what all the other kids had.
Abe was a godsend who’d been willing to take a chance on her. At first, Fordham had been hesitant to respond to the ad on LinkedIn. She was unsure of what the job of “project manager of growing boutique publishing company” entailed, and she wondered how her antiquated skills would make her a reasonable applicant. But ultimately, the offer of autonomy and flexibility was too attractive to pass up. She flirted with the fear of rejection then answered the ad. She was called to interview the next day.
Abe was a somewhat tall, attractive man with warm, smiley eyes. Though pushing seventy—as he proudly let her know the moment she sat down—neither his face nor his body had gotten the memo. After a lot of the usual questions, he caught her off guard when he said, “I’d like to offer you the position.”
“I’m a single mother,” she blurted.
“Yes, I know.” Abe picked up her resume. “According to this, you’re also ‘a people person’ and ‘highly organized.’ You graduated magna cum laude from SUNY Binghamton with a double major in English and theater. But my favorite is ‘I can have a big mouth when asked to use it, but I can use discretion otherwise.’” He laughed. “That works for me.”
She adjusted the bracelet Whitty had given her for Mother’s Day. “My daughter is still young, and I would prefer to work from home whenever possible.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Also, I’m not into public transportation. I want to drive into the city when I have to be here.”
“I think you’re crazy, but as long as you make your meetings on time, I don’t care if you swim here.”
Abe bit into a Danish, leaving some of the jam hovering over his top lip. It was a classic move of her father’s. She couldn’t help but think it made Abe look paternal.
“I enjoy driving,” she said, wriggling in her seat. She wasn’t going to tell her almost new boss that she considered herself a sane person with reasonable control issues. He didn’t need to know that she was willing to pay for gas, tolls, and even parking just to have her car handy.
“Fair enough,” Abe offered.
“You’re very understanding.”
“I know,” he said. “So why are you trying to get me not to hire you?”
Fordham went into her bag for a few clean napkins she’d stashed away from her breakfast with Whitty. “Of course, I want you to hire me. I just...”
“Need a break? I know what that’s like. Now you’ve got one. Take it easy. I’m a good judge of character. You’re going to do great.”
Fordham handed Abe a napkin and showed him where to wipe his mouth.
“Thank you,” Abe said, blushing.
“Thank you, Mr. Goldmann. Thank you so much!”
“Oh, by the way, I take the PATH, but I have a prepaid parking spot at a garage down the block. It’s convenient, and it’s yours.”
“So you’re my Santa Claus?”
“No, I’m your boss. And it’s Abe to you. Now get out of here and get yourself a good pair of sneakers. When you’re in the city, you’re going to need them.”
He was right. She’d done more walking and driving in the three years since she’d taken the job than she had in her whole life before that. And Abe had become a good friend. He understood her quirks, forgave her idiosyncrasies, and still teased her about having a neurotic relationship with her car. She argued that she simply liked the freedom of coming and going as she pleased. She wasn’t willing to be stuck at the mercy of a bus driver with a sinus headache or stranded because of a water-main break in the subway station. The clincher had come a few months before her interview, when Whitty got strep throat and a high fever on a day Fordham had taken the train into the city for a date. There was an accident on Fordham’s line, and her bus wasn’t running. Her mother took Whitty to the doctor and sat with her afterward. Fordham vowed she would never be in that situation again.
A low, steady buzz that sounded like a swarm of bees in heat broke into her thoughts, but she couldn’t figure out what it was or where it was coming from. She went to the closet, and when her coat didn’t yield results, she followed the sound to her pocketbook, which was hanging behind her coat. She dug deep into her bag and pulled out the offender: a tube of lipstick. At least, it appeared to be a tube of lipstick. But lipstick didn’t buzz, and on closer inspection, she remembered it was the vibrator she’d gotten as a party favor at Margo’s last birthday bash. She breathed a sigh of relief, appreciative that Whitty wasn’t into makeup yet and that her mother, a solid autumn, would have never entertained the color. Why she’d kept a vibrator nestled in her cosmetic case was as baffling as how the thing had turned on by itself. If the ghost of her grandmother wasn’t fiddling with the on-off switch to express her disapproval of Fordham’s singledom, maybe the battery had been triggered by Fordham slamming the door and jarring the bag. Either way, it wasn’t worth pondering on an empty stomach. She’d come in early, as Abe had asked, but despite having called several times, she hadn’t been able to reach him. Maybe he’d overslept. That happened from time to time.
She smacked her lips. She could use some water. And maybe there was something to nibble on in the lounge. As she strode down the corridor, past the private offices around the perimeter and the large cluster of cubicles in the center, she noticed how bland her surroundings were. Like most offices, the décor of Haskins was heavy on metal, light on wood, and scant on color. Maybe neutrality was a way to make the company seem more colorful.
A quick peek out the window informed her that Cortazzo’s was having a special on salads. Lunch, she decided as she waved to a few assistants chatting about a web series that followed people going hand fishing. Fordham’s morning coffee had tasted like the bottom of a marsh, and anyone who tried could likely yank a putrid bass from the back of her tongue.
She got a bottle of water from the lounge, grabbed a packet of smoked almonds, and headed back to her office. Fordham tried to get back to work, but her mind kept shifting back to wanting the comfort of her bed, Netflix, and a takeout menu. She idly worked on a message for Zoe, the intern she’d insisted Abe hire.
Someone called out in the whiny tone of a wounded hound, “Fordham? Fordham?”
Focusing on the message she was writing, she did her best to ignore the cries. Bingo says thank you for the adjustment and hopes he’ll see you at Vincent’s. Gay, sassy, and a far cry from the John Smith he’d been named at birth, Bingo Smack was one of their best-selling authors.
She was trying to process the note when Abe burst into her office as if delivering the last call to get on the ark before the flood. “Fordham, didn’t you hear me calling you?”
“Of course I heard you. North Korea heard you. What’s going on?”
“What’s going on? You wouldn’t believe what’s going on.” He pushed over a pile of papers and parked himself on the corner of her desk. Anybody but Abe would have been given the evil eye for that, but he was more like a father than a boss, and that came with a lot of latitude.
“Try me. It’s Monday. I’m approachable.”
“We need to talk.” Suddenly, Abe wasn’t sounding very paternal.
“Why? Everything is great. I know you were a little upset about the Zoe thing, but I promised to straighten everything out with Bingo, and I did. I told him she’s inexperienced but certainly enthusiastic. He knew she didn’t mean to grab his balls during the photo shoot, and according to a note I just read, I think he kind of liked it anyway. Truthfully, in those pants, he really was hanging way too far to the left. She was trying to get him at his best angle. And that nose is probably about as long as his—”
“Breathe, Fordham. This isn’t about Bingo Smack or Zoe. And for the record, I know you’re doing a great job. This is about Margo Flax. She’s pregnant.”
Fordham chuckled. “Very funny. Really, what’s going on?”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“Abe, what did you drink for breakfast? There is no way Margo is pregnant. I just had lunch with her Friday. We were chatting away. She said nothing. And she was eating—oh my God, was she eating! But it’s impossible. The woman is at least fifty. I was at her last birthday party. They were handing out estrogen with the favors. Granted, she looks great for her age, but Botox can’t perk up a uterus.”
“She left.” Abe turned to the top of the file cabinet and picked up a framed photo of the three of them at an office picnic.
“As in, she no longer needs to move her car for alternate-side-of-the-street parking? As in, ‘Abe, here’s my bathroom key?’ Left, as in moved?”
“Oh yeah. She left the country!” Abe ran his hand over the picture and set it back as if it were a Fabergé egg.
“Just like that?” Fordham stood at the window, and even though the windows on their floor didn’t open, she began breathing in deeply and slowly. She stared down at the cars going by as if they were the minutes of her life. She wasn’t sure which upset her more—the fact that Margo was gone or the fact that Margo hadn’t trusted her enough to tell her about the move.
“Why didn’t she just get a Yorkie like normal childless Upper West Siders?” Fordham asked.
“Margo is one of a kind. I knew that the day I met her.”
“Sorry. Responsible people don’t just wake up one morning and say, ‘Oh, it’s nice and sunny today. I think I’ll get pregnant by my flavor du jour, quit my job, and leave the country.’”
“You’re right. No one except Margo.” Abe let out a deep sigh.
His secretary, Myra—a short, stocky woman in her early sixties—bolted into Fordham’s office. “Abe, Allen Clifford is on line one, and he insists on talking to you personally. What do you want me to tell him?” Her tone was as no-nonsense as her hairstyle.
“Oh, I’ll take it.” Abe got up. “Big possibilities there!” He met Fordham’s eyes. “Stick around. We’re not done yet.”
Before following him, Myra flashed a sympathetic smile that gave Fordham every reason to worry about what else Abe had to say. She was doing a good job. Abe had acknowledged that. Margo was gone, but the woman was emotionally needy and flighty. Thoughtless and egocentric. Self-serving and impulsive. The real shock was that she hadn’t planned her own surprise going-away party. Fordham winced. Maybe there had been a party, and Margo had chosen not to invite her.
She went to her file cabinet, picked up the photo, and was about to throw it against the wall when she decided to weigh her options. She could call Margo. Confront her. Tell her how hurt she was. Make her feel good and guilty. But that would be showing her hand, and she wasn’t in the mood to be that vulnerable. It was easier to be angry.
There was the possibility that Abe had misunderstood the situation. Maybe Margo was just taking a little break, like the time she told everyone she was going to Vegas to marry her personal trainer but really went to Mexico to get a tummy tuck and have her breasts lifted. When Margo returned, she claimed that she and her new husband had agreed to a quickie divorce, but her cleavage told a different story. When Fordham confronted her, Margo admitted that it had been a sham but swore her to secrecy. Fordham found it amusing to have something so benign to use as collateral should she ever need it.
If Margo’s office was still home to her eyelash curler and her Clinique 50 SPF sunscreen, the whole situation might be chalked up to a face-lift. Somehow, Fordham doubted that would be the case. But the most infuriating part of all of this was that Margo had agreed to help her. At lunch, she seemed to understand that Fordham needed to spend more time with Whitty. The fact that she could so easily say one thing and do another was unforgivable.
Feeling a little adrenaline rush, Fordham got up and snuck quietly into Margo’s office like one of Charlie’s less experienced angels. Other than the aubergine-colored walls, a box of Kleenex, and the faint smell of Poison—Margo’s signature scent—everything was gone, and nothing suggested that she had any intention of returning. Fordham felt a few tears well up in her eyes, but she wiped them away before they got out of hand. She was tossing away the tissue when Abe surprised her.
“So this is why I couldn’t find you. What—did you think I was lying?” Abe tried to sound insulted.
“No, I just wanted to see... I wanted to see if she left anything I could use.”
“Here.” He picked up a jar of Oil of Olay from the top of a bookcase and tossed it to her.
Fordham caught the bottle and set it on the desk. “Wow, she must have been in a real hurry.”
Abe pulled out a folded envelope from his pocket and handed it to Fordham. “I found this taped to her computer screen. You read it to me. My eyes are tired.”
Fordham snatched the paper out of Abe’s hand, ripped open the envelope, and whipped out the sheet of paper.
Hello, Gorgeous.
I’m assuming Abe or Fordham is reading this. If it’s Myra, a few highlights framing your face will immediately brighten your complexion and add interest to your eyes.
Fordham, it turns out you were right. My secret is out, right along with my waistline. I’m pregnant! Please don’t hate me for not sharing sooner. I’ve waited for this moment all my life, and I wanted to make sure everything was in place before I told anyone. I haven’t been this excited since I hired my first personal shopper. I’ll fill you in on the details when I have the time.
My plane leaves in an hour, and I’ve only packed four bags. Can you imagine? And Fordham, I know you’re upset with me, but stop wrinkling your forehead, or you’ll end up with premature lines. They say everything happens for a reason. I know you’ll understand someday.”
Fordham ripped up the note and threw the pieces into the wastebasket. “No, I will never understand, and I will never forgive her! And for the record, Margo Flax doesn’t fall in love. She falls in bed. End of story.”
“Okay, champ.” Abe picked up the face cream. “Maybe, but this time, it sounds king-sized. She called as she was boarding the plane.” He spun the top off the jar. “Does this stuff work?” he asked, applying some under his eyes. “Anyway, she met the guy on a dating app. He’s some Hindu descendant of royalty, and she says she’s crazy about him.”
Fordham felt like a bottle of cheap champagne—bitter and waiting to explode. She didn’t know why she was so angry or why she couldn’t just let it go. And Abe was taking the news way too well. At the very least, he could have confronted Margo and given her hell for abandoning everyone.
Abe waved his hand. “So here’s what I’m thinking. You and Margo are friends—”
“Were friends,” Fordham corrected.
“Okay, you and Margo were friends, and you’ll be friends again when you get over this ridiculous, uncharacteristic bout of schoolgirl jealousy. And you two are about the same age—”
“I told you. She’s fifty—at the very, very least!”
“Okay, you’re a kid. The point is, I don’t have anyone I trust enough to step into Margo’s project. We’re on a tight schedule, and I can’t afford to have some wet-behind-the-ears freelancer waltz in and botch this up. I need you to do it.”
“Me? So I can botch it? I’m a public relations manager, not an editor. Abe, I’m sorry, but there’s no way. I’ll go over her instructions if you want me to and give you my opinion, but—”
“There are no instructions. And there is no ‘but’ or ‘I’m sorry.’ This is your project now.”
“That’s not fair. Margo told me this project is a nightmare. Why should I be punished because she decided to go play instead of work?” She knew she was behaving like a kid ragging on her big sister. It was an act of desperation, but there seemed to be no alternative. A small part of her believed that if she stuck to her guns, Abe would cave and give the assignment to someone else. “Honestly, did she leave any kind of directions?”
“No directions, just some sketchy notes and a bunch of assorted papers. I can’t tell what’s what.”
“So where does that leave me?”
“With a book to edit.” Abe hit his hands against the desk.
“Out of what? I’ve never done this! I have no idea what you need, and if there are no notes, what am I supposed to work from? Do you have Miss Marple hiding out somewhere? Maybe she has a clue.”
“You’re a professional. You’ll figure it out. Besides, I think you’re so upset with Margo you’ll try to outdo her.”
“Margo isn’t outdoable. She’s just out of here, and I’m done talking about her.”