I stopped in the bullpen, where my in-box was crammed with junk mail, a few interoffice memos, and a bright orange Post-it from Fran, my boss, that read “Come see me.” The Post-it was attached to a three-week-old death notice on a local pastor, and I tossed both into the trash.
I cleaned out my in-box, then glanced into the editorial pen to see whether any familiar faces were there. A bunch of strangers with graphic tees and colorful hair hunched over the glass desks, their attention on their phones, and the sense that I was working at a legitimate news organization grew fainter. I headed for the elevator and tapped the call button.
“You new here?” A guy with a backward cap and a Lakers jersey stopped beside me and gave a half wave with a Styrofoam coffee cup.
“No.” I tried to swallow the know-it-all look that used to get me beat up in math class but . . . come on. New here? I was an original. Hell, I had been here during the Tribune purchase. “I work remotely.”
“Ah, right on.” He stuck his hand out. “I’m Rick. I cover the fantasy football picks.”
His palm was there, unable to avoid. I shifted uncomfortably in my flats, then shook it, trying not to grimace at the contact.
He kept my hand captive and tilted his head, reading the lanyard badge that hung around my neck. “Lillian Smith. Editorial?”
“Yep.” I pulled free and stared at the elevator panel, wondering what was taking so long.
“Written anything I might have read?”
“Not unless you read the obituaries.” He smelled like mustard, and the fact that he was close enough for me to catch the scent proved his violation of my personal space.
He hesitated at my response. “Like, this week’s?”
“Any week.”
“Ohhh . . . You’re the celebrity obituaries girl.” Understanding dawned, along with that sympathetic look that had followed me ever since I’d been served with a restraining order.
“I was. Now I’m just the obituary girl. No celebrities.” I smiled to take the bite off the words. According to my husband, I’m still snippy about the demotion.
“Well.” He let the word hang in the air. “Seems like a cool job.”
Oh yes, so cool. I struggled not to roll my eyes at the statement because, after all, it had been. Two years ago, I’d been a favorite of the newspaper’s executive board, the quirky obituary writer who had lunched at the Ivy and chronicled every dead celebrity for the last twenty years. I’d even had the high honor of being asked to speak at Jacob’s middle school career day. When I’d mentioned meeting Janet Jackson for her brother’s obit, the entire auditorium had gasped in awe.
Last year, I hadn’t even been invited to the newspaper’s Christmas party. This loser, in untied tennis shoes and sporting a wallet chain, had probably attended, while I’d spent the evening at Sam’s, downing expensive eggnog and lamenting my downward trajectory in life.
The elevator chimed and I waited as a group stepped off, easing my way around the flow before darting in. The sports guy hesitated, and maybe my failure carried a stench, because he stayed in place and lifted his coffee cup in parting.
I pulled out my phone in avoidance of a response and opened my Twitter feed, but the hint I’d posted on the way to the office had only two replies.
Shit. I was failing at everything.
CHAPTER 4
LILLIAN
My husband cut his meat with the slow speed and precision of a surgeon. Placing his fork, prongs down, on his plate, he picked up his napkin and smoothed it across his lap, then reached for his glass of red wine. “Jacob? How was school?”
“Fine.” Our son slouched in his seat, his purple prep school polo crooked on his large frame. He poked at the small breast on his plate with suspicion.
Mike glanced at me. I tried to see if there was a hint of unhappiness in his dark brown eyes. He gave me a kind smile and I sighed, useless at reading him.
“What about French class?” I tried to at least help lift the load.
“Fine. What is this?” Jacob used his fingers to pinch off a piece of the meat.
“It’s chicken,” I lied. Jacob’s increasing pickiness was rejecting everything as of late. “The other kids in French, they’re good?” I pressed, and tried not to think about Heather’s mention of Santa Barbara and what or who my husband was doing there for three days. Three days. Someone could fall in love during that time. Plan a divorce. Impregnate a woman. Interview for jobs.
“Yeah, Mom. They’re fine. And we aren’t kids. Some of them are already eighteen.” He put the piece of duck in his mouth and tentatively chewed. “This doesn’t taste like chicken.”
“Eat it,” Mike ordered.
“I just want to make sure,” I said quickly, “because we can’t change your schedule again. Not with the semester—”
“I’m not going to have any issues with anyone in French,” Jacob said dryly. “No one will come near me, so you don’t have to worry about it.”
Mike’s and my gazes connected again, and I was reassured by the protective look that passed between us. He might be distant, but Jacob would always be our priority, and Mike wouldn’t disrupt his family. I believed that—I had to believe that.
Mike picked up his fork and pierced a wedge of potato. “That’ll pass, Jacob. It just takes time.”
“Whatever.” He pushed his plate away. “This is lamb, isn’t it?”
“It’s duck,” I said, annoyed. “You’ve liked it before.”
“Well, I don’t now.”
I forced myself to take a deep breath and waited for Mike to interject, but his attention was on his phone, which had buzzed with a notification.
“I’m going to my room.” Jacob pushed away from the table and grabbed his plate and dirty silverware. “Thanks for cooking, Mom.”
I watched as he carried the items into the kitchen and dropped them with a loud clatter beside the sink. A few years ago, we could have ordered him to stay at the table, but now, the chances of being ignored outweighed the chances of being obeyed. As a parent, you could lose only so many arguments before you lost them all.
The school had learned that lesson with Jacob the hard way, with him and another kid ending up in the principal’s office with blood and bruises. If it hadn’t been for a sizable donation in his name, Jacob would have been expelled. If the kids were ignoring him in French, maybe that was a good thing. In high school, being ignored was a thousand times better than being focused on—at least it had been for me, an acne-ridden girl with a stutter.
Jacob’s steps pounded up the stairs and I sighed, pushing my own plate away. “I don’t know how to handle him.”
Mike finished chewing, then wiped his mouth with one of the blue linen napkins we used for everyday meals. “He’s seventeen. He’s dealing with hormones and high school. When I was that age, I was either trying to screw or fight anyone that spoke to me.”
Normally I would have smiled at the comment, so I did my best, my lips stretching painfully as I picked up a wineglass and hid behind it. “You did not. You probably made a pros-and-cons list first.”
He shrugged. “Maybe in my head.”