You look awful perky for a girl whos just lost her baklava, Bea said, crossing her arms over her chest. Been meditating again?
Give me twenty minutes, Josie said, holding up her palm. Well get a taxi. Call Roxie and tell her to meet us there.
Ginger placed her fingers flat upon the center of her brow, intercepting the frown before it could cause any damage. Where are we going?
Olympia Kitchen. Paulies last tray. Josie turned back to her computer.
Meet me by the elevators in twenty.
Josie made her deadline with a whole minute and a half to spare, hitting the send key with that rush of accomplishment that always reminded her how much she loved her job. Shed managed to paint a picture of a persons life in under twenty minutesfather of six, grandfather of fourteen, a regular guy with an unusual work ethic, a restaurateur who for decades dished up spanikopita and moussaka with a story and a smile. Josie grabbed her purse and headed for the lobby, stopping by the city desk on the way.
Its in, she told Kenny, the city editor. Ill be on my cell if you have questions.
Thanks, kid, he said, not even looking up from his computer screen.
She raced down the main aisle of the newsroom and waved to the receptionist as she reached the lobby, where Bea and Ginger waited. Just as Bea hit the down key, the receptionists voice called, Hold up, Josie!
She spun around. Denise, the newsroom receptionist, was gesturing to a small figure perched on the edge of the lobby couch. I just left you a voice mailtheres someone here to see you.
You coming? Ginger held the elevator door.
Josie stared at the gray-haired lady with the unmistakable piercing eyes. She hadnt spoken to Mrs. Needleman since the day her husbands obit was published.
In ten years on the dead beat, Josie had known family members to stop by the newsroom for only two reasonsto retrieve a personal photo lent to the paper or to complain about an inaccuracy, and Josie knew shed long ago returned the North Pole photo to Mrs. Needleman.
Was there an error in the story? Josie took a step toward the old lady, her stomach sinking at the thought of running a correction.
Oh, no. It was lovely. Mrs. Needleman smiled up at her, as if there were nothing odd about her visit.
With an understanding nod, Josie remembered a third reason why someone might stop byloneliness. Mothers whod lost their soldier sons. Siblings or children of the deceased. Neighbors. Grieving friends. About three years ago, a widower arrived in the newsroom in a suit and fedora and offered to take Josie out for a beer, explaining that he needed to talk about his wife, and Josie had already proven to be an excellent listener.
Beas voice sounded impatient. I guess well just bring you back a piece.
Make it two! Thanks! Josie shrugged at her friends and sat down next to the widow, dropping her bag on the floor by her feet. How have you been, Mrs. Needleman?
Im getting along, she said in that wavering voice. Its a little too quiet for my taste, of course. Ira was such a talker. He always had something to say to the TV people, especially that Bill OReilly fellow.
He never cared for him.
Josie nodded.
I hate to say it, but if Ira werent already dead, last nights Fox News lineup would have done him in for sure.
I see.
Im thinking about selling the house.
Josie glanced at Denise in a silent plea for help. The receptionist smiled.
Conference Room A is open. Would you like me to send in coffee?
Josie nodded at Denise in gratitude. That would be fabulous.
Id prefer tea, Mrs. Needleman said, pushing herself from the sofa with little difficulty. Shed come to the paper dressed in a blue wool jumper over a beige polyester blouse tied in a bow at the neck. She had on pearl clip earrings, and carried a stiff patent leather bag with a huge snap closure, an accessory so ancient it had become ultrachic again. Her hair had been recently permed and styled. She wore an old-fashioned, flowery perfume. Josie watched her march toward Conference Room A as if shed been there before, then flick the light switch inside the doorway.
The fluorescent bulbs blinked on.
This will be lovely. Mrs. Needleman motioned toward one of the swivel chairs. Have a seat, Miss Sheehan, and you can tell me all about your progress over a nice cup of tea.
Gwen Anders slammed down the phone and paced in her office. Why had Rick distanced himself so? Was it Margots death? Of course not. Hed started limiting his contact with Gwen long before that, as if he wanted their relationship to be less casual, less personal. Shed cried several months back when he told her, from that point forward, to make an appointment before stopping by the Celestial Pet offices. He said it was about keeping his corporation and his foundation separate. She knew it had nothing to do with any of that nonsense. He was trying to push her away.
He was trying to avoid her.
Did he think she didnt notice? Did he think it was acceptable?
Gwen brought both hands to her chest and tried to steady her breathing.
Now was not the time to panic. She couldnt allow emotions to cause her to be sloppy. Now was the time for precision and focus. With concentration, she could bring it all together. It was taking longer than she expected, but it could still go according to plan. If she could just hang on a little longer, Rick would wake up and see that Gwen was what he needed and wanted.
Shed done everything right. Shed been patient as a saint. Chaste as a nun. Discreet as a priest. Above reproach in her management of the foundation and in all her personal affairs. There was nothing/nothing/that Rick could find objectionable about her lifestyle.
Even Teeny Worrell hadnt found anything on her. Shed made sure of it.
Gwen had been loyal to Rick in the extreme. Shed turned down several outstanding job offers and a very generous proposal from Ricks nemesis, Bennett Cummings, who was perpetually looking for a chink in Ricks armor. Of course she was above such bribery. She ignored Cummings.
Was it her looks?
Gwen smiled to herself, breathing easier now. She was flawless. That was the only word for it, really. Her weight and muscle tone were perfect.
Her hair, skin, and teeth were in top form, radiant with health. Her clothing, shoes, bags, accessoriesall impeccable. Nothing overstated.
Nothing that screamed money or status, which, of course, indicated she had both and needed neither.
So what had she missed in this equation? Why on earth had Rick Rousseau never once shown a flicker of interest, in all these years? She was well aware of his tragic pastin fact, it was an essential ingredient to his overall appealbut /please/. The man was only flesh and blood. This couldnt go on much longer, could it?
Of course not. That would mean shed miscalculated horribly. And Gwen Anders didnt miscalculate.
One by one, the senior managers of Celestial Pet Superstores rose from their buckwheat-hull sitting cushions and headed toward the rear entrance of the office building. It had been a productive staff meeting, as their outdoor gatherings under the ginkgo tree usually were. On the days agenda were revising inventory, postponing construction plans for their fifteenth store, and brainstorming on whether they should offer a line of in-house organic pet care products. Rick also approved the months broadcast, print, Internet, and direct-mail marketing plans and okayed a jump in the warehouse-to-retail delivery budget. As a last order of business, Rick agreed they had no choice but to fire a groomer at the newest store, a young woman whose lack of enthusiasm had drawn dozens of customer complaints. Ricks policy was to personally approve all employee firings, at all levels.