The Last Man In Texas. Jan Freed
“What’s this we business? My name’s not on the letterhead, remember?”
“Would you forget what I said, goddamn it, and listen to what I’m saying!”
“You’re the one going deaf, not me. Read…my…lips. You have two weeks to hire my replacement. Unless, of course, you prefer that I leave immediately.”
Feigning indifference, she busied herself with straightening the towering contents of her in box.
“Lizzy, think. It might take you as long as a year to land a comparable position. Are you honestly prepared to give up a VP title, top salary and cush working conditions on the basis of one stupid fight?”
She thought of the headhunters eager for her call. “Yes.”
“Then I hope you’ve got cable TV. That’s a lot of time on your hands to spend alone.”
Her fussy movements stilled. “What makes you think I’ll be alone?”
“No offense, but your social life isn’t exactly active. By choice, I’m sure,” he added hastily and much too late. His expression gentled. “I’d worry about you, honey. I only want what’s best for you. Won’t you please forgive me and stay where you belong?”
Ten years she’d waited for him to call her “honey,” to see his eyes warm with tenderness, to hear his voice soften to a bedroom croon. But not out of pity. Oh, God, she couldn’t bear his pity.
Deep in that place where insecurity and pride waged war in a woman’s soul, the latter raised a mighty sword and sounded a Valkyrie battle cry.
Responding, Elizabeth lifted her chin. “I do forgive you. But you were absolutely right. I have been hiding in my nice safe world—” she lifted a forestalling palm “—no, don’t apologize again. And please don’t worry about me when I leave Malloy Marketing. There’s no need. I won’t be alone with my cable channels. Along with finding a new job, I’ll be starting a second career. The most exciting and challenging career any woman with no previous experience can have.”
“And in plain English that would mean…?”
That I’m through settling for what I can get. That I’m going after what I want. That from this moment on, you’re going to see Elizabeth, the woman—not Lizzy, the girl Friday.
“It means that I’m getting married, Cameron. If you really want what’s best for me, you’ll wish me well.”
AT HER POST behind the lobby reception counter, Rachel Rosenfeld punched the last blinking light on the telephone console. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Richmond, but Elizabeth is still unavailable. Would you like me to interrupt her meeting?”
A long-suffering sigh whuffled in Rachel’s ear.
“No. Just tell her I called again, and that it’s important. You won’t forget, now, will you?” Her tone implied that her messages in the past had never been relayed.
Rachel suppressed a peeved sigh of her own. “No, Mrs. Richmond, I won’t forget. But if you’re worried that I will, she checks her voice mail regularly if you’d like to leave a personal message.” Hint, hint.
“Well…” For an amazing few seconds, Elizabeth’s mother seemed to consider dipping a toe into the current century. “No, I hate using that thing. The beep always cuts me off before I’m halfway finished. It’s so rude.”
Rachel mentally counted to five, a trick she’d found useful when dealing with her twelve-year-old son, Ben. “I’ll see that Elizabeth gets your message the moment she’s free.”
“Thank you. I need to talk to her as soon as possible. Tell her I’ll be waiting for her call.”
Oy! “Yes, I’ll tell her. Goodbye, Mrs. Richmond.” Rachel hung up before the woman could kvetch some more.
Poor Elizabeth. All she needed now was for her father to call, though he usually waited until after lunch. As the divorce settlement battle between Muriel and Jerry Richmond intensified, they sought Elizabeth’s counsel more and more often. The nud-nicks had been draining their daughter’s reserves of strength and patience for weeks. She must have finally run dry about ten minutes ago.
That’s when, according to Tim’s panicked news flash, she’d quit her job. Loudly. As in “She yelled like a fishwife.” Elizabeth. Then she’d stormed past his office, followed minutes later by Cameron, looking meek and worried. Susan and Pete had reported the same Twilight Zone sight.
Talk about role reversal. No wonder they’d freaked!
Elizabeth was not only the driving force behind new business acquisition, the lifeblood of the agency, but also a calm buffer between the boss’s notorious temper and every tochus in the place. Beyond that, she was genuinely loved by everyone, and interested in their personal lives and aspirations…though she shared very little of her own.
Rachel supposed since she’d worked here the longest—seven years and counting—she understood being asked to interpret the high drama. It was no secret she and Elizabeth had become close friends. Rachel’s co-workers had wanted reassurance that all would return to normal. Still, she wasn’t a mind reader.
A schlemiel, yes.
A psychic, no. She couldn’t even predict what her husband of fifteen years would do. So why had she told the trio not to worry, that Cameron would smooth things out? What if her instincts were wrong?
Frowning, she recalled Elizabeth whizzing through the lobby earlier with flushed cheeks and glittering eyes. Eyes that had studiously avoided Rachel’s. Eyes that could’ve been bright with unshed tears as well as fury.
Maybe Elizabeth had truly and finally had it with the brilliant mercurial Cameron Malloy. Maybe the way she looked at him when she thought no one watched—the same way Rabbi Levitz looked at the Torah on Shabbat—didn’t mean she secretly loved him. Maybe his gentler temper around her, his use of the pet name “Lizzy” when he thought other employees couldn’t hear, wasn’t a subconscious response to feelings he wouldn’t admit.
And maybe you shouldn’t kibitz in their relationship when your own marriage is no rose garden, Rachel Rosenfeld.
The beloved voice had delivered countless tender scoldings and unsolicited advice throughout Rachel’s life. Her heart squeezed.
“Mama?” she whispered.
A jangle from her telephone answered. Blushing, she glanced quickly at both hallway entrances to the lobby before picking up on the third ring. She connected a freelance photographer to the art department, dealt with a subsequent incoming call, then sank back in her chair, still embarrassed by her earlier delusion. Mama had died of a stroke three years ago.
Funny, Rachel mused, how her mother’s “meddling” used to make her crazy. Now she’d give anything to soak up all that love and wisdom. She was a schlemiel, all right. Only a fool would fail to treasure loved ones until after they were gone.
She ripped off her glasses, gathered a pinch of the broomstick silk draping her thigh and briskly rubbed the lenses. If only she hadn’t focused all her energy and attention on Ben’s schoolwork, his baseball and swimming, his upcoming Bar Mitzvah celebration—his needs and wants. They’d left her little time for Steven. And in her diligence to be a good mother, she’d neglected to be a good wife. So easy to see in retrospect.
But three months ago, when Steven had moved abruptly out of the house, needing “time and space to think,” she’d been as shocked as their sweet little boy.
She’d told no one of their separation. Not even Elizabeth.
Rachel’s vigorous rubbing slowed. And now her sweet little boy bristled with hostility. He wasn’t so little anymore, either. The last time he’d let her hug him, right after his father moved out, she’d been able to prop her chin on the crown of his shorn black hair. This morning, she’d rushed out of the kitchen as he rushed in, and they’d