Best of Luck Elsewhere Page 4

  “And I distinctly remember you saying that had a ‘solid’ body and a very nice tizi.”

  “You’re right. I did say that.” I paused, trying to decide for sure if I wanted to pull out the big guns. I hadn’t said anything on the drive to LAX because I wasn’t sure what my plan was. But I did now. “Oh, did I tell you? He asked me out.”

  Cleo gasped with joy and grabbed my hands. “No!” she exclaimed. “How could you have left that out, woman?”

  “He gave me his card. You know, his number and everything. Invited me for coffee. I’ll probably call him when I get back home.”

  “Probably? You will call that man. And you’ll go out and have a blast and then you’ll marry him and I’ll be your maid of honor, and I’ll say in my speech that one of the first things you said about him was that he had a very nice butt.”

  “I’ll definitely have coffee with him. The rest, all of that wedding stuff, will have to be put on the back burner, I’m afraid.”

  “What? Why? Not because of Liam, I hope.”

  “Don’t start on Liam now.”

  “I’m not! I’m just saying that you’ve let some other guys go because of him before.”

  “Yeah, when he and I were a couple.”

  “And since then. You’re too self-conscious. You need to forget about all that past stuff with Liam and be careful not to let a new prospect get away because of a lost one.”

  It was easy for the cool sister to tell the average one not to be self-conscious. Cleo’s dark skin glowed like our mother’s, and she’d also inherited the trim figure of our paternal grandmother. There was no way in the world that a man could refuse her advances the way Liam had refused mine. She could not possibly know how that would affect a girl. I wanted desperately to change the subject.

  “You’re just jumping the gun, that’s all. I will call Adam this week, and I will go to coffee with him if he still wants to, and I will call you afterwards with all the details. Will that do for now?”

  “I guess it’ll have to.”

  “Yes, it will. Because the caffeine from the Diet Pepsi is kicking in and I’m going to drive home now before I get sleepy again.”

  Cleo wanted nothing more than for me to have a safe drive home, so she was quick to help me load my luggage into my car. And she sent me on my way with two ice cold Diet Pepsis in my cupholders, just in case.

  * * *

  I was dead tired by the time I got home. As soon as I’d lugged my suitcases into the living room and flopped down on the couch, I pulled out the unsent postcards to Adam Mestas.

  I’d bought the first one in the stack while waiting for my flight at LAX. A photo collage of Hollywood on the front. What an impulse buy! I’d filled it out on the plane, and the words on the back were like a voice from the past, excited with the adventure that was just beginning, both my trip and the prospect of our relationship:

  Dear Mr. Mestas:

  Thank you again for being flexible with the interview time. It was fun to do it, and nice to get to know you.

  I’ll see you in a couple weeks.

  Eliza Tahan

  I blushed as I read the last sentence, remembering the words appearing on the card and knowing I’d never send it.

  As embarrassing as it was, and maybe narcissistic, too, I really wanted to read what I’d written on the other unsent postcards.

  Dear Adam Mestas:

  I had a stopover in London, and it was my first time here. I didn’t have much time but I was able to spend a few hours in the British Museum. I mainly wanted to see the Reading Room, which you can see in the picture on this postcard. I thought you’d appreciate it, being a book person like me. I hope it isn’t weird to be sending this.

  I hadn’t even signed my name before I’d changed my mind. I thought of my trip to the British Museum, and everything I hadn’t written on this card. Though I went to see the Reading Room, I ended up liking the Egyptian artifacts the best, since they made me think of my dad. Of course, if he were alive and there with me, he wouldn’t have liked them as much and probably would have had some comment on the European effect on the Middle East, and how all these artifacts were stolen goods. But I’d still thought of him, and that felt nice.

  And I could not help remembering that, though I’d had time to write postcards to a near stranger, I had not started my novel. I hadn’t even cracked the notebook full of fresh, blank pages.

  I couldn’t have been missing Adam. We’d only just met. I wondered with a sickness in the pit of my stomach if writing to him was just an excuse for not feeling inspired enough to write anything “real.” Was so much missing in my life that I had to grasp at a professional acquaintance?

  The picture on the front of the next card made my heart stop all over again: white-washed buildings, blue domes, steep staircases. I felt the powerful wind over my body, as though I were climbing those steps all over again. My throat tightened as it had each time I had walked up to a church on the island.

  Hi Adam—

  I’m in Fira, and I took a long walk this afternoon. It’s breathtaking, and even though it was knock-down windy, the views of the quiet streets and the wind-whipped ocean were worth battling the weather. The sun is out now and the wind has died down, so the ferries should be coming back to Santorini tomorrow.

  Not looking forward to coming home. I can at least look forward to that coffee with you.

  Until then,

  Eliza

  There was no question about this postcard—it would never reach Adam. None of them would, for that matter.

  I looked around the living room. Geez, was I already ready for another vacation? I felt almost sick to be back. Back to my messy room, back to my hellish boss, back to the knowledge that my trip to Greece hadn’t changed my life.

  I sighed and began dragging myself upstairs, away from the most adventurous two weeks of my life and towards the mundane life I knew would eventually smother me.

  * * *

  After my shower I lay on my bed for a half hour, towel around my head and robe around my clean body. What was I thinking, buying those cards and writing them to Adam? Waste of time. Waste of money.

  At least I had the sense not to send them. Otherwise he’d have evidence of my interest.

  I sat up purposefully, the towel falling off my head. Shiny, wet obsidian hair fell around my shoulders.

  “And what’s so bad about that?” I asked aloud. “So what if he knows I’m interested? Am I so afraid of being rejected that I’m going to practically reject him?”

  It was still best not to have sent the postcards, that much was true. But as far as my potential with Adam Mestas, I decided then and there that tomorrow I’d call him and set up that date. Even if I felt self-conscious, he’d never know it.

  Inspired, I decided that tomorrow I’d print out the available positions in other departments from J Press’s intranet site and apply to the interesting ones.

  And I’d start my novel. Become an author as well as an editor.

  And I’d start pricing studio apartments downtown and show some enthusiasm about selling the condo.

  And tomorrow I’d begin filling the void.

  And tomorrow I’d start rebuilding the self that had been torn down.

  CHAPTER 4

  I was running late for work the next morning, and having Rain yell at me was not how I wanted to start rebuilding my life. While gathering my things, I noticed the answering machine light blinking, and vaguely recalled waking to the faint sound of the phone ringing late last night and deciding in my jet-lagged daze that there was no way I was dragging myself downstairs to pick up the phone.

  I listened to the messages while I hastily made my breakfast. Nothing was of much interest until Liam’s voice came on.

  “Lizzy—it’s Liam! I’m sure you’re home safe and sound and sleeping off the jet lag. You probably won’t have even noticed that I’m not there, but in case you did, I just wanted to let you know that I met a friend the other day and I’ve b
een staying over at his place for a while. I’ll be back tomorrow. Oh, and can I please borrow your car tomorrow night? Mine isn’t there, as you will have noticed, but it isn’t with me, either. I tried to start it up the other day and all of a sudden it didn’t work. The mechanic thinks it’s an electrical thing. He’s probably taking me for a ride, but it’s still better than trying to do it myself. We’re going out tomorrow night and James uses public transportation to get around, but how lame for a date. So can I use your car? I hope you had a great time and I—”

  His message had been too long. Both for the answering machine and for me. The beep cut him off just in time. I balanced my granola bar on a can of V-8 juice for my breakfast-while-commuting and headed out to work.

  * * *

  Every inch of my desk was piled high with manuscripts that I was going to have to catch up on, and on top one of the piles was a note that read:

  More for you on my desk.

  Sue

  I moaned. What was a vacation when it just meant that you’d make up the time you had off in working overtime for the next few weeks? And since I was salaried, overtime meant “my own time.”

  I was there early, and so when I entered the interns’ office in search of my additional workload, I wasn’t surprised to find it completely empty. I came in here at least once a day to drop off rejected manuscripts with the interns. Usually it was bustling with college kids working hard and trying to network in the company, so it was eerie to be in there when it was so empty. I walked slowly along one side of the room. There was a long desk attached to the wall, and every few feet there was a sign on the desk with a name. Stacked in each section were manuscripts waiting for something—to be sent to me or another assistant editor, or to be sent back to authors. And tacked to each wall, like unauthorized divides, were personal items belonging to each intern. One intern had photos of his family, presumably on the East Coast if the foliage in the background were evidence. Another intern had pictures of her friends, and your run-of-the-mill Kittens Calendar. At Sue’s section of the desk, I noticed that her wall was covered in inspirational quotes.

  I found the stack of manuscripts meant for me. I was shocked to see, however, that they already had reports for Rain attached. Had Sue given her own reports on these submissions? I looked at the top one. The poorly written, too-short report ended:

  Recommendation: Publish this book!

  PR Suggestions: Oprah would love this book about a strong woman.

  Report by: Sue Talley, covering for Eliza Tahan

  And Rain had evidently seen the reports too. In red pen she’d scrawled right on the report:

  Who is Sue Talley and why is she covering for Eliza? This report is almost as awful as the manuscript. I’m sending back the rest of these reports and won’t look at them again until Eliza sends them to me herself.

  “Dammit,” I muttered. I had a little empathy for Sue, who’d just gotten a taste of the side of Rain’s personality that we were all used to. And maybe I had a little pride that Rain had implied something positive about me. But mostly I was upset that Sue had taken it upon herself to “cover” for me. Who did she think she was? I leaned over to pick up the mountain of manuscripts, ready to get them back to my desk.

  Just then, Sue appeared beside me. “You’re back!” she exclaimed, surprised and rubbing her wrist nervously.

  “Yeah, and I saw your note about the additional manuscripts in here—”

  Sue’s eyes fell upon the stack in my arms. “Oh, before you go, let me take off those reports. Ms. Orwell didn’t like my writing the reports for you—”

  “Who said you were supposed to do that?”

  “No one. I was just helping.”

  “You shouldn’t have. I was only gone for a couple of weeks.”

  “But things were piling up.”

  “I expected that. I have a system. I’d set time aside to do this stuff when I got back.” It was a lie.

  Sue was quiet, rubbing her wrist. I couldn’t tell if it was a nervous habit or something patterned to calm her anxiety. But then she dropped her hands to her side and in an instant shoved them deep into her pockets.

  “Gosh, Eliza, I’m sorry. I was just trying to help. And maybe get my name around. But believe me, I regret the whole thing. I’ve regretted it ever since Rain returned those reports.”

  “Okay, don’t worry about it. I appreciate that you wanted to help out. And I understand what you mean about getting your name around. I used to be an intern, too, you know. I know how it feels being in a sea of other people wanting a job here after college. It’s just that I could get in trouble if Rain thought I was passing my job off to someone else.”

  “You’re not going to get in trouble.”

  Sue replied with more certainty on the subject that I had. An optimism due to her lack of experience with Rain, to be sure.

  “Anyway, let me take off those reports so you can give them a fresh look. Pretend I never did them.” She snatched the report with the red scrawl from the top manuscript. “Did you read what she wrote?”

  “Yeah. But don’t let it get to you, Sue. Rain can be really hard on people.”

  “When I saw her note I wished that this was a regular job so I could just quit. But if I quit my internship, I won’t get any college credit for it. I felt, I dunno, embarrassed and trapped, but also worried that she might recognize me and yell at me in front of everyone. And yet,” she said thoughtfully, “I guess Jane gets the brunt of Ms. Orwell’s temper and she could leave any time, but she never does. So maybe I wouldn’t just up and quit either.”

  Lowering my voice so it wouldn’t carry, I confided, “I’m sure Jane doesn’t want to be an assistant forever, and one day some position will open up here that she wants. If Rain gives the hiring manager a thumbs-up, she’ll be set. I think Jane understands that, and that’s why she’s sticking it out. So, when it gets tough here, Sue, just know that it will help your career to be in the good graces of such a respected editor.”

  “Thanks,” she said with a smile, ending the conversation on a positive note. “Hey, you’re awful chipper today. I hope you’re not so happy to be back because your vacation was a flop or something like that!”

  “No, no, no. A hundred times no,” I replied with a laugh. “I had an amazing vacation. I think I’m just feeling a little better about, you know, everything. I’ve just had some time to think about what I want and about moving forward in life. I guess I feel kinda inspired right now.” I drifted out of the interns’ office, which was slowly coming to life with activity.

  When I reached my desk, I decided to start with voicemail before hunkering down with my stacks of manuscripts. And was I glad I did. The first message happened to be from none other than Mr. Adam Mestas.

  “Hello, Eliza.” His rich voice slid through the phone. “I know you’re on vacation, but I wanted to leave you a message to remind you to call when you get back so I can give you those copies of the article. They’re going to print today for the Sunday edition, and I’ve put in for the additional copies. Just give me a call when you get a chance.”

  He left his number and I dialed it straight off, while I still had my nerve and while I was busy enough with the work I had waiting for me to sound reasonably professional when I spoke to him. Otherwise I might be too shy with the knowledge of the unsent postcards, of the thoughts of him dancing through my mind for the past two weeks.

  In true phone-tag form, I got his voicemail. “You’ve reached the desk of Adam Mestas, editor for The San Diego Union-Tribune book section. I’m either away from my desk or on another line. Please leave a message with your contact information and I’ll be in touch soon.”

  I cleared my throat during the beep, and then said, “Hello, Adam. This is Eliza Tahan at J Press returning your call. I’m back from Greece and I’d love to get together to get the copies of your article. Thank you for setting that up. Feel free to stop by the office today, or even the condo this evening. Otherwise, just give me a call ba
ck and we can set up a different time. You have my cell phone number.”

  Although I spent the next half-hour sorting all the papers on my desk, my attention was mostly on the phone in case Adam were to come by. My mind was also utterly preoccupied with the thought that he might come by the house tonight. I admit it was more than a little forward of me, but he’d had no problem coming by before for the photo, so it wasn’t way out of left field for him to come by to drop off some copies of the article. I found myself hoping he’d come by tonight, hoping that he still had that simmering interest that seemed to spark the last time we’d met.

  I decided then that it was definitely time for a coffee break. I put notes on all my stacks of manuscripts, demanding that they not be touched, and headed down to the first-floor Starbucks.

  As usual, many of my colleagues were sitting at the small tables gossiping. I wondered how long they would be down here. And how long before Rain came down on one of her raids. In reality, she would come down for tea once in a while and, upon seeing her peons sitting around, she’d fly into a rage followed by a meeting later that day with threats to fire people who sat around on company time.

  “Tall mocha frapp,” I ordered, “and Toby, please don’t tell me the calorie count on that!”

  Behind the counter, Toby smiled his goofy nineteen-year-old smile.

  “You don’t need to worry about that kinda stuff anyway, Eliza.” Smooth little guy. Most people interacted with the baristas just to order their drinks and move on. I imagined that it was a bummer working in a coffee shop attached to an office high rise. It would be so much more inspiring to work in a coffee shop in Hillcrest or La Jolla or somewhere, where wanna-be hippies would come in and hang out all day and chat with you and know everyone in the place. But an office building?

  I was quite fond of Toby and his adorably awkward flirtation attempts. He always made me feel good about myself. In fact, he’d asked me out after he found out Liam and I were off. Doubtless he’d heard it from one of the shameless office gossips in the café. I’d told my young admirer a gentle but firm “no.”