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  “Today, ma’am?”

  “Yesterday is gone, tomorrow isn’t here yet, so that leaves today. Yes, Rosa, today,” Justine said coldly.

  Justine took a last look around the dining room. Wainscotting was so depressing. So was the wallpaper. She remembered her devastating decorating endeavor. “I like it, I like it,” she muttered.

  What the hell was he doing here? He didn’t want to be here, had no intention of ever working here, but here he was, with no desk. What the hell kind of lawyer was he if he didn’t have a damn desk? He felt like bellowing, until he remembered that Nigel Sandor, TIF’s attorney, would be unemployed by noon, at which point he would take over the battered old desk that was so dusty he couldn’t see what kind of wood it was. He couldn’t help but wonder when the last time any legal business was conducted in this office.

  Ross shook his head in disgust. Damn, what was he doing here? Why was he here? He hated to think he was so shallow he would compromise his ideals to work here. Was there anything wrong with getting hands-on experience in ye olde family business? A matter of opinion, he decided.

  Office hours were eight to five. It was already nine o’clock, and Nigel was conspicuously absent. It didn’t surprise him. The other employees weren’t in their offices either, with the exception of his mother, who always arrived by 6:45 to do God only knew what behind closed doors.

  Ross’s eyes fell on a memo slip clipped to a worn-out lampshade. “Contractors will arrive at noon. Business will be conducted on the first floor in the conference room.” It was his mother’s handwriting.

  The big meeting was scheduled for ten o’clock. At eleven o’clock a second meeting was scheduled with the new employees. Ross grimaced. Out with the old, in with the new, and don’t give the bodies a chance to cool off.

  Because he couldn’t yet take possession of Nigel’s chair and desk, Ross had no choice but to go downstairs to the conference room and work on the publicity release his mother wanted sent to the Philadelphia Democrat for tomorrow morning’s edition. Plus, he had to compile a severance-pay list. The list was his own idea, one his mother would have a hairy conniption over. One week’s severance pay for every year’s employment. It was fair and just. His father would approve, and he had to make sure it was done before Jasper signed over TIF in its entirety to his mother.

  Careful not to touch anything, Ross left the office to take the back stairs to the first floor. He winced when the door to the conference room creaked open. The room was long, narrow, and dismal-looking. He opened the venetian blinds, and in an instant his navy-blue jacket was covered with gray dust. He shook himself like a dog, cursing at the same time. Jesus, how had things gotten to this point? His mother had taken an active role in the magazine only fifteen years ago, even though his father had appointed her publisher as a wedding gift. If Hillary Blumgarten hadn’t died at the age of ninety-two, Justine would never have taken an active role. Ross remembered his father’s words to his mother on her first day at the magazine: “Don’t do anything, just sit there and let the magazine run itself. Hillary has a well-oiled machine that works.” Ross snorted. How had his mother lasted all these years? Why was his father so damn stubborn?

  God, how he dreaded this meeting. How did you fire fifteen people who worked for you for thirty years? That was 450 years between them all. It was a shitful thing his mother was doing. He upped the severance pay in his head to two weeks for every year of employment.

  Smack in the middle of the long oak table was a stack of magazines. The last twelve issues of TIF. The only other thing in the room aside from the conference table were twelve cane chairs and a Tiffany lamp minus a lightbulb. Let someone else raise the venetian blinds, he thought; he’d opened them.

  Ross scanned the magazines, yawning as he did so. It was hard to believe anyone bought the damn things. He slammed the issue he was holding back on the table. Dirt and grit moved around. He’d be better off going out to the parking lot and working in his car. His watch said he had almost twenty minutes. Time to go around the corner for a bagel and some coffee. The hell with the lists, the hell with this conference room. The fucking hell with his parents.

  On the short walk to the corner deli, Ross thought about his parents, wished he could love them, wished they were a close family, wished for kind words he could return.

  He saw her then, the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. She looked familiar. God, where had he seen her? The theater, the movies, on the street? He forgot his intention to buy coffee and a bagel. When he’d seen her before, she’d also been wearing blue. How could he not remember her? Every hair was in place, the blue-checkered sundress crisply ironed, her leather sandals polished. Bare legs, he liked that. No ring on her fingers, no jewelry.

  “Villanova!” he blurted.

  She smiled, her blue eyes dancing. “Are you speaking to me?”

  “Yes, yes I am. I’ve seen you before, but I can’t remember where. Was it Villanova? I went to law school there.”

  The girl studied him. He crossed his fingers that she would remember him. He bit down on his lower lip when she apologized and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t remember meeting you.”

  “Oh, we never met. What I mean is, we weren’t introduced or anything like that. I saw you. I remember seeing you. You were wearing something blue, maybe it was this same dress. Do you have two blue dresses?” Jesus, he didn’t just say that, did he? His neck grew warm.

  “As a matter of fact I do have two blue dresses, this one and another one. I went to Villanova for two years but had to drop out to save money. I’ll go back when I can afford it. Perhaps you saw me in the library.”

  “Yes, that’s probably it. I spent a lot of time there. Listen, would you like some coffee, a bagel, some Danish?”

  The girl held up her muffin and then pointed to her coffee. “Do you want to share?”

  Did he want to share? Did he want to keep on breathing? “Absolutely. That’s yes. One bite though, okay?” He leaned down to take a bite and looked into the clearest, warmest eyes he’d ever seen. “Your eyes kind of have a purplish tinge to them,” he blurted.

  “I know. Not much I can do about it, though,” she said, finishing off the muffin. “You have to live with what you’re given.”

  “I didn’t mean that in a negative way,” Ross said quickly.

  “1 know you didn’t. I was just teasing. It isn’t every day a handsome man tells me he remembers me. Thank you for the compliment. Lena Davis,” she said, holding out her hand.

  He was about to introduce himself when a voice behind him roared, “I’ve been looking for you all over. Come on, get a move on, Lena, or we’ll be late. First impressions are important.”

  “I lost track of time.” She laughed. To Ross, she smiled and said, “I really didn’t touch the coffee, so if you want it, it’s yours.” A moment later she was gone, with a giant of a man whose voice was a mixture of gravel and molasses.

  Ross ran then, around the corner, cutting through the alley to the parking lot in back of the Landers Building. He took the back stairs two steps at a time, until he realized he was supposed to be in the conference room on the first floor. He ran back down, winded. He took a moment to smooth his hair and adjust his tie. Lena Davis. Nice name. Pretty as its owner. He closed his eyes for a moment to remember her warm smile. Her curls looked soft and feathery, and fit just right around her head. She was wearing little pearl earrings. Everything about her was pretty, her eyes, her smile, her hair, even her white teeth. He’d almost asked her if she used Pepsodent or Ipana. Jesus. One hundred ten pounds, maybe 108. Perfectly proportioned. Her toenails were painted. He’d noticed that too. “Shit!” The story of his thirty-one-year-old life. He always was the last one out of the gate.

  His breathing under control, he opened the door. Maybe she was in the phone book. A sea of white heads greeted him. He felt laughter bubble in his throat when he noticed his mother standing at the head of the conference table. For the first time in her life, she looked frazzl
ed. He quietly took a seat in the corner. No one seemed to notice his arrival. Half of the assembly appeared to be asleep.

  “Devon, wake up or else turn your hearing aid up,” Justine shouted. “Nigel, wake them up, for God’s sake. I don’t believe this!” she sputtered. “Ross, do something!”

  Grinning, Ross stood. Surely these kindly old men weren’t his peers. He brought his fingers to his lips and whistled shrilly.

  “Fire drill!” Justine screeched. “Ah, good, I have your attention now. Thank you, Ross.

  “Gentlemen, you’re fired!”

  “Sacked?” Devon said peevishly.

  “Unemployed?” Nigel fretted.

  “Think of it as retirement and resting on your laurels,” Justine said loudly. “You’re seventy-seven, Devon, and you, Nigel, are seventy-five. It’s time to sit back and do what you always wanted to do.”

  “Why?” Arnold Baker grumbled.

  “I knew you were going to say that,” Justine sputtered. “I’m going to tell you why. Ross, give each of them a copy of TIF.”

  Her son passed out copies of the last issue.

  “Now, look at the cover, look at the articles, look at everything ,” Justine said. “What you are looking at is a costly magazine no one wants to read. No one buys it. We are operating in the red. What’s in this magazine are rehashes of articles printed in newspapers. Anniversary articles. I do not want anniversary articles. Who cares what happened ten years ago? Not me, not the reader. The reader wants to know what’s going on now. I don’t see anything on the Olympics or the mechanical heart used on that Pennsylvania man. Not one word about the King of England dying last year, nothing on the Rocky Marciano–Joe Walcott fight. People want to know when there’s a new boxing champion and a new king or queen. I fail to understand why nothing was written concerning Albert Schweitzer winning the Nobel Peace Prize. TIF is probably the only magazine in the world that didn’t have at least one paragraph. And for God’s sake, the world needs to know that General Motors is going to have air-conditioning in its 1953 models. And last but certainly not least, why wasn’t something written about the sex operation on Christine Jorgenson? That’s something else the world wants to know. That, gentlemen, is why you’re all being fired!”

  “Did Jasper tell you to fire us, Justine?” an elderly man in the back of the room demanded.

  “No, he did not. I’m firing you. Don’t you understand, this magazine is changing course. It’s mine now. If any of you were still capable of doing the job, I’d keep you on, but you aren’t. You must all retire. You will be given severance pay. My son Ross will be handling the details. When this meeting breaks, you will leave the building because renovations are to begin. You could choke on the dust,” she said defensively.

  “What will we do, Justine?” Devon dithered.

  “Take life easy. Enjoy your life. Walk in the park, dine out, play checkers, play cards, meet with friends. Whatever you want.”

  “You’re casting us aside after we gave our lives to this magazine,” Saul Wimple grumbled.

  “May I make a suggestion?” Ross said quietly.

  “Absolutely,” Justine said, relieved at his intercession.

  “When the renovations are completed, there will be a large room off the first-floor corridor. I suggest we make it into a club room for all of you. You’ll be free to come and go as you please. My mother will be more than happy to appoint all of you honorary officers of the magazine. Your names will appear in the credits column. Two weeks’ severance pay for every year’s employment is not shabby, gentlemen. The club room will be stocked with your favorite wines and liquors. Updated magazines and newspapers will be available, along with several chessboards for your convenience. Will that be satisfactory?”

  “That sounds like a Jasper Landers solution,” Nigel cracked. “Am I right, boy?” Ross shrugged. His mother glared.

  The moment the door closed behind the TIF employees, Justine said, “That was uncalled for, Ross. You’re awfully generous with my money. You had no right.”

  “Every right, Mother. Father would be like a bull if you didn’t give severance pay. It is his money, after all, and if you really want him to turn this paper over to you, you have to start out fair. What I just did was fair, for you and for Father. Everyone is happy. The men will have someplace to go every day. TIF has been their lives. You can’t just throw them out. The papers will pick up on it, and for a new venture like the one you’re contemplating, it doesn’t pay to get bad press. Those men are entitled to their dignity, and it isn’t their fault they grew old. You, Mother, will be old one day. Think about that.”

  An ugly look crossed Justine’s face. “They better not get in the way, is all I can say to you, Ross. I am personally going to hold you responsible for the good old boys club. Their names on the credits. No!”

  “Yes.”

  “I refuse.”

  “Then I’m out of here. Decide now, Mother.”

  Justine seethed. “Very well,” she said grudgingly. “But only for six months.”

  “At which point we will renegotiate the terms,” Ross said affably.

  “You better drive the same hard bargains when I need you.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Mother. Now what?”

  “Now we go to the second floor and meet all our new employees and lay down the rules. I expect the renovations to take thirty days. We can go to press in forty days. Everyone will have a job, working out of the basement, and if need be, the parking lot. I’m having lunch catered by the corner deli. When it arrives, we’ll open the meeting. Feel free to interject at any point. You do that well, Ross,” Justine said coolly.

  “I had a good teacher,” Ross replied wearily.

  “You don’t like me, do you, Ross?” Justine said. “Why is that?”

  “Because I’m afraid I might turn out like you. I am your son.”

  Justine didn’t flinch, her eyes didn’t waver. “Is that another way of telling me you’d rather be like your father?”

  “No, I don’t want to be like him either. I just want to be myself. Being your son has never helped me. You were never there for me when I needed you. I’m here now because . . .” Jesus, why was he here? “Because I consider myself a worthwhile person. I guess because I feel I owe you something for bringing me into the world and getting me to this place in time.” How stupid, Ross groaned to himself. Was that the best he could come up with? He knew the only thing his mother heard were the words “owe you something.” The bottom line, for now, was hands-on experience. The time would come when he’d wake up some morning and realize his debt was paid. Then he’d make his next decision about hanging out his shingle. On the other hand, he might head out to the Fiji Islands and strum a guitar under a palm tree. He had enough money to do that right now if he wanted to, thanks to generous grandparents and an equally generous father.

  By any standard, he was wealthy, his accounts totaling so many zeros, he’d lost count at the age of eighteen. Aside from his Buick Skylark, he’d made no excessive purchases. He wore fine clothes, yes, but only because they wore well, lasted longer, and he detested shopping. He was not one to pick up tabs for his roommates, because they wouldn’t allow it back in college and law school. He’d wanted to be one of them, so he’d lived the way they all did, pooling money, going Dutch, loaning and borrowing and keeping strict records.

  “Are you going to be able to handle this, Ross?”

  Ross fought the laughter bubbling in his throat at his mother’s worried expression. He’d graduated in the top three percent of his class. His favorite law professor had told him he was a natural for the law. On top of that, Dr. Peters said, “You have compassion, something most lawyers lack.” Plus he had five years as an assistant district attorney. “As a matter of fact, Mother, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about an associate. I have just the person in mind. He’s almost as good as I am, maybe better. Yes, he’s better,” he said generously. “We tied for second place in law school. We w
ork well together. Between the two of us, we can handle things here.”

  “Hiring a second lawyer isn’t in my business plan,” Justine said sourly. “How much of a salary would he demand?”

  “The same as mine. I really don’t know how I can get along without someone like Woo. Maybe you should think about it right now, Mother, before we head down to the next meeting.”

  “This is the eleventh hour, Ross. You’re doing this deliberately, aren’t you? You’re pushing my back to the wall to get what you want. I don’t like this, Ross, not one little bit.”

  “I knew you were going to say that, Mother, but if you stop and think about it, isn’t that exactly what you’re doing to Father? What makes me any different?” Ross shrugged. “Like mother, like son.”

  “Woo? You mean that . . . that Polish person you roomed with at school? His ears stick out and he always needs a haircut?”

  “You only saw him once, and the reason he didn’t have a haircut was because it wasn’t in his budget that week. If I remember correctly, he needed new heels on his shoes that week, and he needed to eat. He’s my best friend, Mother.”

  “Is he the one you always spent holidays with?” Justine asked quietly.

  “Ah, you remember that, do you? Yes, Woo is the one. The Woojaleskys always invited me, and treated me like one of their own. Mrs. Woojalesky makes the best meat loaf in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.”

  “Meat loaf?” Justine said stupidly.

  Ross was enjoying this. Woo was in the bag. “Yeah, she puts all kinds of little green things in it, and the gravy is so good I always have thirds. She makes pies and cake, sews, and she loves all nine of her kids. Well, Mother?”

  Justine’s eyes narrowed. “You’re blackmailing me, Ross. Half what I’m paying you.”

  “The same,” Ross said coldly.

  “Three-quarters,” Justine snapped.

  “The same, Mother,” Ross said, picking up his briefcase.

  Justine patted her pompadour. “You drive a hard bargain, Ross. I like that. I was testing you,” she said sweetly.