Emily & Einstein (27 page)

A few runners zipped past me, and several people walked along with coffee and a dog. I concentrated so I wouldn’t trip in a rut, and this time I made it from the Seventy-second Street underpass all the way to Seventy-seventh Street without stopping. Forget the fact that I was half dead by the time I got there. I made it and it felt amazing.

Later, when I was headed for work, there was no denying that I felt I could take whatever anyone threw my way. Which turned out to be a good thing because that afternoon Tatiana called me to her office for an impromptu meeting.

“Brady,” she said, turning to one of the longtime Caldecote editors. “Did you have a chance to read the proposal for
My Mother’s Daughter
?”

Brady cleared his throat, looking at her over his tortoiseshell reading glasses. “I did.”

My heart raced in a way that was not so different from how it felt when I got to the Seventy-seventh Street underpass.

“I must say, Tatiana, I was impressed.”

“You were?” This from Victoria.

Brady didn’t so much as glance at her. “I was moved by the content and was impressed with the writing. The pages had heart and were well written.” He turned to me. “Your sister is quite the storyteller.”

“I thought you’d love it,” Tatiana stated. She turned to the art director. “Fernando, what do you have to show us?”

My brain tried to make sense of what was happening, but even when the art director pulled out a cover mock-up, I couldn’t speak.

“My Mother’s Daughter,”
he read. “
Living with Lillian Barlow.
By Jordan Barlow.”

“Edited by Emily Barlow,” Tatiana added.

All in an elegant typeface, printed over an old black-and-white photograph I had seen many times before.

It had been taken when I was thirteen, Jordan three, at one of my mother’s parties. A photographer had been hired to capture the event. In the picture, Mother was larger than life, full of the energy that drew people to her like bees to honey, Jordan and me sitting on the floor gazing up at her, like pages to a queen. All three of us wore elegant dresses more suited to the late ’50s than more modern times.

Sitting in the conference room all these years later, I was moved. “It’s perfect.”

Everyone in the room except Victoria started talking excitedly.

“It
is
perfect!”

“It’s fabulous.”

“It screams
Read me!
”

Tatiana quieted them. “We are going to publish it in time for Mother’s Day next year. And we are going all-out to make
My Mother’s Daughter
work. Television and print ads. A creative promotional plan. I want Jordan and Emily booked on every national talk show.”

My brain struggled to catch up. “Wait. What? You want to publish next May? Isn’t that pushing it? We don’t yet have the book.”

Generally it took a year to bring a book to the shelves. It could be done faster, though generally not when the book in question was by a first-time author who was going to get a big push. I would have even been okay with nine months for Jordan’s book, but nine months after we had the completed manuscript.

“Next May is cutting it close,” I said.

“Look, we’ll get the manuscript at the end of August. That gives us eight months, and we can do plenty for the book before it’s turned in. I want this done, Emily,” Tatiana said. “I’m counting on you to deliver.”

What could I say?

She sat back and considered me. “You’ve certainly turned things around. We have significantly increased the orders for
Ruth’s Intention.
And now
My Mother’s Daughter.
You went from being behind and foundering to having the potential for two very big successes.”

Or two very big failures, she didn’t need to add.

Victoria hadn’t been pleased before, but at this news she perked up. And why not? All of a sudden I had a novel that everyone expected to be a best seller, which meant that anything less would make it a disappointment. On top of that, I now had a memoir written by my generally irresponsible sister and a tight deadline. Given the combination, Victoria might finally get her wish that I fail in a quantifiable way.

But there was something else that played in my head. A push. A big push from the beginning that wasn’t a stroke of luck gained from a candy bar. A push for a book that was indisputably mine from start to finish. This was how careers were made.

I was surprised by the sudden sense of excitement I felt. For months I had faced nothing but a long stretch of emptiness lined by battles I had no idea how to fight. Now I felt almost drunk with purpose, drunk enough to push away whatever concern remained about working with Jordan.

I gathered my notepad to leave.

“And Emily,” Tatiana said, stopping me. “I want you to kick things off by taking your sister to lunch at Michael’s.”

“Lunch? With Jordan?”

If I had to choose one person I would never willingly take to lunch at Michael’s, it would be my sister. It was hard to picture her in the power setting wearing cargo pants and combat boots—or even flip-flops. I shuddered to think what Jordan would say to me if I suggested she wear something other than her normal attire.

“Yes, Emily. I want you to take her to Michael’s.” Enunciated with crisp, schoolmistress diction.

A heartbeat passed before I said, “Great idea. Can’t wait.”

chapter twenty-seven

“What do you mean we’re going to lunch at some idiotic place called Michael’s and you want me to ‘dress up’?”

My sister paced the kitchen. “I am not going to kowtow to some stodgy establishment dress code, all because you want to parade me in front of media types to get attention for the book.”

“You’re right.” I held my hands up in defeat. “I’ll tell Tatiana that under no circumstances will you do your part to help make
your
book a success.”

“Well, I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Jordan said.

“No problem, Jordan. Surely the book will sell on its own. It doesn’t need the kind of push so few books ever get.”

“Tatiana is making my book special?”

“She was. But now…” I let the words trail off.

“Okay,” she griped. “I’ll go.”

But I was no dummy. “Jordan, I appreciate that. And while I wouldn’t ever want you to wear some kind of little black suit, I can’t take you to a place like Michael’s in flip-flops. I’ll tell Tatiana it isn’t going to work.”

My sister was no dummy either. “Buy me a new outfit, and I’ll do it.”

Which was how Jordan and I, Einstein in tow, ended up on the second floor of Bloomingdale’s an hour later.

“I’d rather go to SoHo to shop,” Jordan said.

The smile I shot her way might not have been kind.

“But hey, I can deal with this. For the book and all.”

The first outfit Jordan pulled off the rack was awful, and I told her so, which made her want it all the more. Einstein growled at me.

“Okay, I won’t say another word.”

But Einstein did.

When Jordan pulled out a three-hundred-dollar pair of ripped cargo pants, the dog growled at
her
.

“Yeah,” Jordan said, “buying a more expensive version of what I already have doesn’t make sense.”

He barked his approval.

Neither Jordan nor I seemed to think it strange that Einstein was giving fashion advice.

A pair of army green leggings?

Growl.

Some sort of sacklike minidress?

A woofing scoff.

An orange fedora and green blazer?

He rolled over and played dead.

“Then you pick something out!” Jordan practically barked at the dog.

Einstein seemed to consider, then trotted through the different designers’ sections, settling on items from several departments. He led Jordan and me with barking commands, guiding us to pull out each of the pieces. Then he literally herded my sister back into the dressing room.

“Get out while I change,” I heard her snap.

He reappeared with what I can only call a swagger.

“Yes, you’re the man,” I told him.

Strolling over to a black leather seating area he looked ready to jump up on the cushions.

“Hey,” the salesperson said. “Don’t even think about it.”

Einstein seemed to debate. But she was big, outweighing him by a good two hundred pounds, and didn’t look like she ascribed to animal rights. He shrugged and lowered himself onto the white shag rug instead.

The woman harrumphed and went back to working the register.

It didn’t take long before Jordan emerged in the first outfit. It was a silky dress that clung to her body in all the wrong places.

Einstein lifted his head and bared his teeth.

Next she appeared in a red-and-black knee-length wrap dress that didn’t do her any favors.

Einstein lowered his head to his paws and groaned.

Jordan came out in a parade of clothing. Theory, Juicy Couture, but it was a dress by someone I had never heard of that made me gasp and sent Einstein leaping to his feet, barking his approval. I was smart enough to keep my mouth closed and my approval to myself.

“What do you think?” I asked.

I had never seen my sister look dreamy, and she actually twirled around in the short dress. The bodice was sleeveless, black, and fitted, a black belt at the waist, with a full flounced skirt of green, black, and white floral ombre print, a tiny bit of black tulle revealed at the bottom, just above the knees.

She looked edgy yet sophisticated, youthful but not too young. And with that smile on her face, excitement lighting her eyes, I realized my sister was very pretty.

“I love it,” she said almost shyly.

“Then it’s yours.”

“But it’s so expensive.”

I could see the militant side of her doing battle with a never-realized girly side.

“Don’t worry about the price.” I prayed my credit card wasn’t maxed out. “It’s just one dress. For a good cause. It’s not like you’re going to suddenly throw out all your cargo pants and join that bourgeois elite.”

“You’re right!”

After a quick trip to the shoe department—quick because Einstein picked out the shoes in a few seconds flat and wasn’t taking any of Jordan’s suggestions—we bypassed the escalator in deference to Einstein’s paws and headed for the elevators.

“What are you going to wear, Em?”

Einstein practically skidded to a halt and looked at me.

“I have tons of things.”

E scoffed.

“I do.”

He ignored me, herding us back to the racks. When he didn’t find anything on the second floor, he guided us up a level. There he found a beautifully simple Ralph Lauren dress. I loved it. But …

“No way,” I said when I looked at the price tag.

Einstein and Jordan ignored me, pulled the dress out and herded me to the tiny dressing room in the Ralph Lauren section.

I pulled it on despite my better judgment. When I came out and looked at myself in the mirror I saw the woman I used to be. More than that, I realized something else. “You have the same exact taste as Sandy,” I said to my dog.

Einstein leapt up and barked.

Jordan laughed and I smiled.

“The Barlow sisters are going to be the talk of the publishing world,” Jordan said as we walked out the door.

Einstein held his head high with what I could only call a smug sort of pride. When he glanced at me, I couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, you really are the man.”

*   *   *

Jordan and I walked into Michael’s just after twelve-thirty the next day. It was all I could do not to squeeze her hand when the room full of power players turned around to look at us.

“Here goes,” I whispered.

The hostess was a tall, beautiful woman.

“I’m Emily Barlow from Caldecote Press. I have a reservation for two.”

The woman looked us over, glanced down at her reservations, then considered the table options. We were led down to a table visible to just about everyone.

“They’re all staring at us,” Jordan noted.

“They want to know who we are.”

“Creepy.”

“Not creepy. This is the launch of your literary career.”

A waitress took our order. A Cobb salad for me, which got a raised eyebrow from Jordan. “Dieting?” A hamburger with Gruyère cheese and fries for her. “Not dieting?” I countered.

“Life’s too short,” she added.

“That’s probably true.”

We hadn’t taken more than a few bites of our meal when Hedda Vendome appeared at the entrance like a 1920s film diva stepping onto a silent stage. She wore a black suit that looked like it cost more than I made in a month and her signature heavy makeup with penciled-on eyebrows. She surveyed the room as she headed for her table, the assistant I remembered from before hurrying along in her wake.

Hedda nodded here, waved there, then stopped dead in her tracks when she saw me.

“Emily, darling!”

“Hello, Hedda. How are you?”

“I’m terrible, terrible. I just did a round of cosmetic filler, and while I look fabulous, I hurt like hell! But really,
you
look amazing. Tell me what you’re doing. Dieting? Lipo? Purging?”

Jordan looked aghast. “She’s running.”

Hedda glanced over at my sister. “Running, bah. I say purge. It’s easier on the body. You can imagine what running does to one’s knees. I should know. I watch that quivering, sweating mass of humanity scurrying up First Avenue every year during that horrid New York City Marathon. You’ve never seen so many knee braces on gasping people too old to be wearing short shorts and tank tops. Promise me, Emily, that you are not going to turn into one of those obsessives!”

I could only smile at Hedda. “I’m hardly in shape to run any distance, much less a marathon.”

Jordan considered me. “I have a friend who ran it after only three months of training. When’s the race?”

“I haven’t a clue, but forget it. I am not running a marathon.”

I had read about Sandy’s dream of running the New York City Marathon, how he started to train, running through the park, the power it made him feel. Even more than when he had started writing about other women, the writing about his running had brought him to life.