Little Pink Slips Part 22

"Obviously, about you," he said, smiling slightly but looking like a child on the back of a milk carton.

"But to get on a plane and arrive unannounced?" Magnolia shook her head.

" 'I'm aware it's a bold move.' " She realized he was trying to mimic Jack Nicholson in a movie she'd seen on HBO.

"When did you arrive?"

"Two days ago. Staying at the Y. Walking the city. There are a lot of beautiful women here."

"Part of our regional charm."

"But you're the one I want." He paused. "I've been thinking . . ."

And, apparently, following her.

Magnolia cut him off. "Why didn't you just call me?"

"I wanted it to be a surprise," he said, stepping closer. "Believe me, it is."

This was the moment when a woman in love would reach out to the man, draw him close, kiss him tenderly, and know her life had for ever changed. Magnolia searched her heart. It was . . . crowded. There was, she had to admit, warmth and not just of the chocolate chip cookie variety. Compared to most men she'd met, Tyler was forthright and kind and frighteningly handsome, especially out of his clothes.

And while she was shocked by his kamikaze courting, she was less angry than overwhelmed that he'd flown thousands of miles to take a chance on her. Yet bigger than the intense pleasure of chemistry and flattery was an impenetrable layer of guilt from knowing her e-mails had apparently been misinterpreted.

Magnolia fumbled in her mental toolbox once more and pulled out . . . management skills. She took his hand. "Come upstairs," she said quietly, thinking out loud. "You'll call your wife-who must be a wreck." Magnolia turned to look at him. "Where does she think you are, by the way?"

"Visiting my brother in b.u.t.te," he said. He tapped his pocket. "Cell phone."

"We'll get you home by Christmas Eve," she murmured as they rode up in the elevator. "Your wife won't have to know." She couldn't say if the promise was directed to Mrs. Tyler Peterson or to him, or was for her own benefit.

Magnolia kindled a fire and settled Tyler across from her on the deep green velvet couch, a pot of herb tea and a plate of biscotti on the suede ottoman between them. Instead of lighting her chunky white candles, her usual custom with evening guests, she turned on a lamp. In the burnished glow, she saw him look around the room as if he were visiting the private quarters of the White House, and she felt embarra.s.sed by her home's casual luxury. She'd never been so happy she had two sloppy dogs, who ran to him, placing their paws on his legs, looking for a scratch. He knew exactly how to please them.

"Talk to me," she said.

"I feel so trapped," he said. "Got it coming and going-listening to Jody complain about money and trying to comfort the people in my flock-plus the church is falling down on my head. Everywhere I look, complaints, complaints. I feel so alone. I'm thirty-eight and all used up . . ." He looked into her eyes. "I was hoping you could be there for me."

"Tyler, I can't even imagine how hard your life must be," Magnolia said, and meant it. "What I do, compared to you, is . . . trivial. And I'm paid well to do it. Right now I'm feeling ashamed."

"Hey, you deserve it," he said. "Those magazines make folks happy. Either they look at celebrities' lives and thank G.o.d they're not one of them, or get a kick in the b.u.t.t to change their ways. Jody is always clipping and quoting stuff she reads in magazines, yours included."

Magnolia felt too guilty to think about faraway, faceless Jody, and how she took to heart stories like "A Little to the Left"-How to Say What You Want in Bed Without Bruising His Ego" or "Have You Let Yourself Go? Downsize Your Thighs in 4 Weeks."

"What I don't deserve is you, Tyler," she said.

He got up from his chair, sat next to her, and gently touched her face. His hands were still cold. She placed one of his hands between both of hers.

"I haven't felt this way in a long time," he said. "That weekend- there was something between us. Don't you love me, Angel Girl?"

Magnolia knew she wanted to be loved. But this was, she realized, irrelevant, because she didn't want to make her life with Tyler, and she couldn't return his love the way he hoped. "I'm someone who adores you, but I can't be your Angel Girl," she said. "I'm sorry if I misled you."

"Then are you my temptation?" he asked without a speck of detectable irony.

"When you use words like that, I can't answer," she admitted. "I'm still trying to believe that you went to all this trouble to surprise me here."

He looked to the other side of the room, but she knew she was reaching him.

"Tyler, listen to me. It's not our fate to be together." The Yiddish word beshert-destiny-popped into her mind-and not only wasn't he it, she didn't want to have to translate from Yiddish. "Tyler, I'm sorry, but I think it's best for everyone if you leave in the morning."

He nodded.

"Turning you away is very hard for me," she added, nervously twist ing her hair. "I would love to play house with you, to show you Man hattan. To prove I'm not the ball-busting b.i.t.c.h people take me for."

"Maggie, if anyone knows that, it's me," he said, and let his lips graze hers. The graze turned into a long, deep kiss. "But I hear what you're saying. I don't like it, but I hear it." He stared into the fire.

"And if this is your decision, I don't want to talk about it anymore."

He pulled away. "All of a sudden I feel very tired."

She squeezed his hand.

"I do have one request," he said.

Magnolia brushed away a tear from her cheek.

"Let me borrow a dog for the night," he said, stretching out on the coach and pulling an ivory cashmere throw over his lanky frame. "If I can't have your warm body, at least let me hear a dog snoring." He shut his eyes and she tiptoed out of the room.

In the morning, Magnolia slept past ten. When she straggled out to the living room, Tyler was gone. "Dogs walked & fed," he'd writ ten on a note. "Making 11:30 plane. Didn't want to wake you."

That night, Christmas Eve, she heard from him. "Angel Girl, thank u for the wake-up call," he e-mailed. "You will be forever in my heart. But I'm writing to say good-bye. P. S. I'm closing down this account."

Chapter 2 8.

One-Way Ticket to Siberia.

"See you at the retreat," a new publisher at Scary boomed to Magnolia as he swung his duffel into the elevator on a late January morning. "You're speaking, right?" He'd started Monday and didn't know any better.

"Uh, no," Magnolia said. That would be the executive retreat at an upstate inn where anyone who wanted to present an idea had thirty minutes for her personal tap dance; the retreat capped by Pilates and outlet shopping, followed by an evening of fine food, good wine, and serious posturing-that retreat, the one a corporate editor whose job meant something would definitely be attending. She had the feel ing-egocentric as it was-that the off-site gathering, which nor mally was held over the summer, had been moved up on the calendar simply so Jock could exclude her, enrage her, and get her to quit.

Magnolia opened the door to her office-in-exile and read her e-mail, which took only minutes now that she was no longer logging on to AOL six times a day to see what Preacherman8 had to say. To her relief, last week she'd got a handwritten letter from Tyler, who'd gone on a Chris tian marriage weekend with Jody and was praying-which Magnolia took literally-that their marriage could be saved.

She followed her e-mail with her regular four newspapers plus the Los Angeles Times, then glanced at her yawning in-box. Even her magazine pile was low-she'd been reading issues cover to cover the minute they arrived. She opened this week's New Yorker and was idly flipping through the magazine, cartoon by cartoon, when Bebe clomped through the door.

"So what the h.e.l.l are you doing in this job?" she asked by way of greeting, making a chair creak as she sat down. Either she'd gone on anabolic steroids or put on at least twenty pounds since the Polo episode. "Hanging out where you can call tips into tabloids more easily? Bankrupt a few more people?"

"Nice to see you, too, Bebe, and once more for the record, I wasn't the snitch," Magnolia said. "Not that I approved of what you were doing."

"And I am a natural redhead," Bebe said as she rolled her eyes.

"You expect me to buy that?"

"I don't care what you buy," Magnolia said, wondering whether she came off as petulant as she sounded to herself. "If you're looking for an apology, you're not going to get one."

"Okay, keep your Girl Scout badge. That's not why I'm here."

"To what do I owe the honor?" Magnolia asked, genuinely curious.

Bebe looked around the office. "You know, this is really a dump. Remind me why you quit Bebe?"

"Quit?" The words flew out of her mouth.

Bebe raised her eyebrows. "Escaped, whatever?"

Magnolia weighed the advantage of revealing that her rea.s.sign ment had been involuntary. She couldn't see the percentage. "If I told you what really went on," Magnolia said, "I'd have to kill you."

"Well," Bebe said. "You've made your point." Bebe studied her fin gernails, long tips enameled in a blackened red. "Get your b.u.t.t back."

Magnolia took a quick breath, turned and gazed out the window so Bebe couldn't see her shock. Suddenly, the sky looked bluer and was stenciled with wedding veil clouds. A pigeon landing on her ledge, she noticed, had feathers that s.h.i.+mmered silver-gray with a hint of pink. She used to think of them as flying rats, never appreciating how attractive pigeons-doves, yes?-actually were. She tried not to smile, but the sensation of Bebe asking her to return was sweet and as she savored the taste, time stood still.

"Well, don't just sit there," Bebe said, looking uncomfortable. She cleared her throat. "I'm not going to beg. What's your answer? Com ing or not?"

As if Jock would let her kiss and make up with Bebe. Still, the plea sure of having Bebe ask was multio.r.g.a.s.mic. "I can't. Raven's here.

The job's filled.

Bebe brushed away the thought and chortled. "Let Jock send her back."

"Not so simple," Magnolia said. "Scary jumped through hoops to get Raven a green card, rent her apartment, the whole bit." And, of course, that was only the public half of why Jock wouldn't make a change.

Bebe scowled.

"How are things with Raven, anyway?" Magnolia asked. Bebe sat back, and the frown hardened. "I hate her," she said in a spasm of candor. "Eat Street this, Eat Street that. Who cares and where the h.e.l.l is it, anyway?"

"It's 'Fleet Street.' Means she's a British journalist, that's all."

"And what's 'fine fettle'? The woman won't speak English." Bebe picked up an antique paperweight from Magnolia's desk and idly moved it from hand to hand. "I'd like to break her skinny little neck."

Bebe stood, glanced back, and filled Magnolia's doorway. "So I gather your answer is 'no'?"

"Not for me to say," Magnolia said. "It's a Jock decision."

"If I can get him to throw her across 'the pond,' will you come back?"

"It could happen," Magnolia said, as Bebe walked off.

Since Jock had relocated her to Siberia, she'd only seen him twice, both times on his way to the men's room. But two could play the game. A few days after she'd been planted on the executive floor, he'd asked her, by e-mail, to a.n.a.lyze the covers of all the Scary magazines.

Within a week she'd fulfilled the request, presented in a gleaming report which had been marking time on his desk for a week-if he hadn't filed it in the trash. Though she had virtually nothing to do, she was keeping regular hours, even if a considerable number of them each day were spent on obscure Web sites. Magnolia had been careful not to leave a computer trail that might suggest she was job hunting-she didn't want to give Jock grounds for firing with cause; there was too much money at stake. She had a contract, after all. Best to wait things out and hope that a mouthwatering job would come on the market, and she'd be on the short list.

She'd kill to see the look on Jock's face, though, when-and Bebe begged to get her back on Bebe. But Bebe had opted out of the retreat, so nothing would happen for days-if at all.

It was only eleven. Too early for lunch. Maybe she'd check in with the new couple. Or maybe not. Cameron and Abbey had gone out twice, and while neither claimed to be struck by lightning, they'd purchased tickets for an Off-Broadway play two weeks from that day, which, Magnolia decided, practically implied a betrothal. "She's good company" was the only reaction Magnolia could pry out of Cam, but on the subject of Cameron, Abbey was starting to sound like a 24/7 news network: how witty he was, how well-read, and how talented in the kitchen-on their second date he'd roasted a chicken for their dinner. Frankly, Abbey's oral reports were beginning to grate.

"Why didn't you ever hit on him, Magnolia?" Abbey had asked just the previous day.

"We've gone over this before," she said. "Did you forget that until five minutes ago I was his boss?" Not that the thought wouldn't have occurred to her-at least a hundred times.

As Magnolia was scrolling through her BlackBerry to see which neglected friend she could persuade to go to a movie with her this weekend, Natalie walked through her door. Today she was a gypsy queen in a flamenco skirt and a hip-slung leather belt heavy enough for a carpenter. Magnolia was surprised to see her-she and Natalie hadn't been talking since the Bebe-Polo dustup: She resented that Natalie's coolness suggested that she believed Magnolia was the one who tattled to the tabloid.

Yet she asked, "How you doing, Cookie?" as if they'd just chatted yesterday. "How does it look like I'm doing, Natalie?" Magnolia said.

"I've seen worse," she said, sizing up Magnolia's office. "Anyway, I knew I wouldn't be seeing you this weekend-bonehead move on Jock's part to exclude you, if you ask me-and I wanted you to hear something." Natalie put on her gla.s.ses. The minute she saw it, Magnolia recognized the Smythsons of Bond Street envelope, from which Natalie withdrew a piece of paper of the sort used in the copying machine.

"Dear Mrs. Simon," Natalie read. "Magnolia Gold does not know I am writing you, but since she left Bebe, I can no longer live with my guilt. In case you are wondering, it was not Magnolia who informed the newspaper about Bebe Blake and Nathaniel Fine. I watched the whole thing, and I and I alone am responsible for disclosing this infor mation to the press. I cannot reveal my ident.i.ty, only that I am a member of the Bebe editorial staff and that I am sorry indeed for getting Magnolia in trouble." Natalie put the letter down. "It's signed, 'A friend.' "

Silence hung between them like a blast of drugstore air freshener.

Magnolia hoped Natalie wasn't looking for a name to prosecute. "If you're wondering who Deep Throat is," she said, "I don't know, but it was big of her."

"Magnolia . . ." Natalie spoke in a voice usually reserved for guilty three-year-olds.

"You don't actually think I composed that letter and mailed it on my own behalf ?" Magnolia asked incredulously.

Natalie stared at her while she ceremoniously removed her gla.s.ses.

"Think about it," Magnolia said. "What point would there be? I'm already so off the radar, no one would hear me if I sang grand opera."

"True," Natalie said, taking a moment to consider Magnolia's logic. "So, I guess . . ."-she walked around the desk to give Magnolia a hug-"you deserve an apology. I owe you."

"Well, actually, now that you mention it," Magnolia said, "there's something I want to run by you."

"Oh?" Natalie said.

"You're my second surprise today," Magnolia said. "Bebe was here a few minutes ago. Odd as it may seem, she wants me back." "Extraordinary," Natalie said. She took a moment to let it sink in.

"But what does this have to do with me?"

Magnolia put it out there: "I wouldn't mind returning to Bebe. Anything you could do to make that happen? Plant a seed with Jock at your think weekend, let's say?"

"And where would Raven fly off to?" Natalie asked.

"I haven't thought it through, but you're so much better at those moves than I am," Magnolia said.

Natalie put her chin in her hand and leaned forward on Magnolia's desk, which she tapped nervously with her three middle fingers while she appeared to weigh the request. The light on her biggest ring reflected the afternoon sunlight. "Okay," Natalie said, after a moment.