Camarin stood in front of Carl and Diana Robinson’s prewar town house on Riverside Drive, ten minutes late, willing herself to ring the doorbell. She’d been invited to Friday dinner at least once a month since she’d befriended DeAndre in Journalism 101. The Robinsons were like her adopted family, in many ways kinder and more accepting than her own. But ever since she’d affixed her signature to the bottom of Trend’s contract, she had been dreading this moment when she’d have to share the news with them.
Courage. She pressed the buzzer and heard footsteps rumbling down the stairs. Xavier, their butler, opened the door with his usual smile and beckoned her inside. “Good evening, Ms. Camarin. Mr. DeAndre was speculating that you might not show, but his parents assured him you’d never skip dinner without calling.”
“It’s nice to know that at least they had faith in me. Thanks, X-Man.”
She followed him up the stairs, past the dining parlor with its carved mahogany and antique mirrors, and into the kitchen, which, as always, was a madhouse. Trying to ignore the room’s seductive aromas—and the hungry voice at the back of her head, begging to be fed—Cam concentrated instead on Carter, Jamal, and Kit, her roommate’s three younger brothers. The carousing trio paused from chasing each other around the granite-topped island long enough to hug her en masse before returning to their gameplay.
Dee was in the corner, absentmindedly pulling on his dreadlocks and yelling into his cellphone to be heard over the din. Carl was sitting at the island, attempting to ignore the hubbub and concentrate on his newspaper. Diana, still clad in an elegant Dolce & Gabbana blue pinstripe suit, blew Cam a kiss and then continued to ladle tomato bisque into individual tureens. Though they could have easily afforded a cook, Diana wouldn’t hear of it. She said that preparing dinner was her only way to reconnect with family after a busy day at work.
“I’m so sorry to be late, Diana, especially on soup night,” Camarin said. “If tomatoes had free will, yours would be the only soup delicious enough for them to willingly sacrifice themselves.”
“No apologies necessary. You can do no wrong,” Carl said as he rose, walked over, and embraced her. “You are, after all, our favorite daughter.”
“She’s our only daughter,” corrected his wife. “And even then, only on loan until they call her back home.”
In a fleeting memory, Camarin pictured her actual father, one of the few things she hadn’t blocked out from her early childhood. Looking debonair in his Navy uniform, he’d hug her tightly upon returning home between stints in the South Pacific. His embrace was always loving and unconditional, with no mention of size or looks. Even back then, she could appreciate the value of true acceptance, a rare commodity in the Torres household. She’d found it again years later with Carl and Diana. She only hoped that tonight’s revelations wouldn’t destroy the bond they’d forged together.
“I have no plans to head back to California. I’ll stay your daughter…no matter what happens,” she said weakly.
“Hmm, what could possibly happen?” DeAndre said, slipping his phone back into his pocket.
She shot him a dirty look. Breaking the news to him back at the apartment had been had hard enough. He didn’t need to twist the knife deeper.
Diana peered into the oven. “Okay, everybody, take a bowl by its handles and carefully carry them to the table. Prime rib in about fifteen. Let’s go.”
Feed me! Feed me! Camarin gave her head a quick shake, attempting to silence the intrusive voice that plagued her whenever food was near. Then she picked up her tureen and joined the others.
Soon everyone was busily slurping their soup. The Robinsons launched into their usual monthly litany of questions: How were her parents? Was Benji, her boss at the piano bar, still as demanding as ever? How was the job search progressing?
DeAndre jumped on that as his cue to bring up the issue she’d been carefully dodging. “Mom, Dad, I think Camarin has something she wants to share with you. Don’t you, Cam?”
She was certain her face was redder than her bisque. “Dee, really, it can wait until after dinner.”
“No, it cannot. When my roomie gets her first big job, everyone has to hear about it before the main course.”
Traitor! And after all she’d done for him—poor, easily duped, heart-on-his-sleeve Dee. All the nights she’d consoled him over this girl or that one. The cupcake baker who needed a backer. There was five hundred dollars he’d never see again. The botanist searching for a safe place to hide her pot. The rebellious daughter of the Saudi Arabian diplomat who used their apartment as a haven to trade in her burqa for a minidress before she and Dee went out clubbing. Cam had been his counsel and confidante through every ugly breakup.
She got it though. He’d been hurt by her decision. Just like her sister had been by one of her decisions a few years before. Hopefully, Dee’s voice wouldn’t continually play in her head the way Monaeka’s did, accusing her of selfishness and abandonment.
“Yes, tell us, Cam. We’re so happy for you. Where will you be working?” asked Diana.
She looked down at her bowl, having suddenly lost her appetite. “I took a job at Trend. I didn’t expect to get it. It was sort of an accident,” she said sheepishly.
“Trend? Why would you do that?” asked Carl. “We offered you the junior editor’s job at Drift. Why would you want to work for strangers?”
Carl had a valid point. It would have been fun working every day alongside Dee. She’d watched him push himself hard all semester, taking publishing classes in the mornings, then apprenticing at the magazine every afternoon, all before hitting the keyboards at Benji’s at night. But even if she had been interested in writing about fashion and gossip, where would the challenge have been in working for friends?
She shrugged. “I met this man on a train. He just took over the magazine, and they’re going to steer it in a different, newsier direction. It’s an opportunity for me to write stories about prejudice and hate, just like I’ve always told you I wanted to do.”
Diana, who’d remained silent up to this point, pushed back from the table and started collecting empty soup tureens to carry into the kitchen. “Carl, didn’t you say something a few months back about some guy named Fletcher buying Trend and bringing in some hotshot from Business Day to run their editorial?”
“Yeah, and their ad pages have been climbing steadily ever since. They must be rolling in cash these days, certainly enough to pay our girl more than we can afford.”
That’s odd, Camarin thought. Didn’t Rachel say the magazine was floundering, that the accountant cried every time he looked at the books? How exactly were they able to afford to pay her the high salary they’d offered?
“The thing is, Cam, we understand,” Carl continued. “If this is what you want, we’re with you. No matter how uncomfortable our lousy son is trying to make you feel. He’s just sorry to lose the talent. Aren’t you, Dee?”
Now it was DeAndre’s turn to look sheepish.
“Maybe you can be a spy,” suggested Kit, bouncing up and down with the level of enthusiasm only a six-year-old could muster. “You tell us what they’re writing about, and we’ll beat them to the newsstands. Right, Dad?”
Carl shook his head. “Son, calm down. You know that’s not how we do things. We don’t snoop on our competitors. Anyway, in another year, those decisions will all be up to your big brother. After he graduates, we’ll be retiring, and he’ll be running the place.”
Kit settled back down in his seat. “You should let me run it. He’ll just put girls on the cover, but I want pictures of more important things, like Transformers and the Guardians of the Galaxy.”
While Kit rattled on, Camarin stood up and joined Diana in the kitchen, seeking any excuse to duck the awkward conversation. Together, they prepared and carried out dinner plates stacked high with rare prime rib, mashed potatoes, and broccoli.
“My new position won’t be an issue, I assure you,” Camarin said while she served Carter and Jamal. “If anything, Trend will soon be less of a competitor to Drift because of its new focus.” She stuck out her tongue at her roommate before heading back to help Diana bring out the remainder of the meals.
Diana set down Carl’s dinner plate, and then finally her own, before sitting back down at the table. “Whatever makes you happy, Cam. Just know, if you ever change your mind, there will always be a place for you at Drift.”
Cam set down her own plate, piled high with broccoli over a thimbleful of beef, and walked over to Diana and Carl. She bent down to give them each a hug. “Thank you for your understanding. And your professionalism. I love you both. I would hate for this to come between us in the future.”
“Nah,” said DeAndre, throwing a rolled-up napkin in her direction. “It’s all good. Maybe now she’ll stop getting on my case about changing our content. But Ma, next time she comes to dinner, instead of prime rib, she gets gruel.”