Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,11

club. But I learned when I was very young that things can’t make you happy. My parents’ Berlin house was cold, and I couldn’t wait to escape. All I ever wanted was to work with books, but the family didn’t think that grand enough. That’s why I came to America.”

Dad loved books, loved them so much I’d sometimes enter a room to find him running his hands across the pages of the latest one he’d designed as if it were whispering secrets meant for him alone.

“Oh, Rusie…” When Dad was serious, his German accent grew more pronounced. “I often think that if your mother had work she loved, work that challenged her, she wouldn’t want so much or do such crazy things. She’s just bored and frustrated. It’s so sad for her; she’s a smart woman who was born at the wrong time.”

It is a sign of how oblivious—or perhaps hopeful—my father was that he refused to accept how sick Mom was. But Dad truly loved the woman he had married, and he never stopped believing that if he could only find the magic bullet she would be cured.

He reached out and ran his fingers down my cheek, continuing the thought. “But I hope things will be different for you. The world is changing. What I want most for you is challenging work that makes you proud. It’s the key to happiness.”

Remembering his words, I realized that although he’d put it differently, this was exactly what Mary Frances, Marion, and Cecilia had told me the first time I’d been offered a new job. But now I heard a different message. What they were saying was that it wasn’t the job that frightened me: I was just terrified of change. I heard Mary Frances saying, very clearly, “It’s time you stopped playing it safe.”

I’d come in search of an answer. And I’d found it. I took a final look up at the apartment where the last rays of winter sun were glinting off the windows. Then I turned and made my way uptown.

“BEFORE YOU DECIDE TO TAKE the job,” my agent, Kathy Robbins, said, “there’s something you need to know about Gourmet.” She paused, as if trying to figure out how to put it. And then: “The magazine’s publisher is in the family.”

“The family?”

“Si’s family. Gina Sanders is married to Steven Newhouse, his nephew.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. “What you’re saying is that if we ever had a fight, I’d lose.”

“What I’m saying is, go meet her before you make a final decision. Because if you don’t get along, the job will be a nightmare.”

Gina Sanders was only in her thirties, but on the phone she sounded oddly formal. When I asked how I’d know her, she replied, “I’m five foot three and I’ll be wearing business attire.”

Who uses the word “attire” in ordinary conversation? But the description proved useful: There was only one person in the coffee shop not dressed in casual clothing, and as I headed for her table I noted that the small woman in the conservative gray suit had shiny brown hair, bright eyes, and a pointed chin. I almost laughed: This was not the frightening businesswoman I’d envisioned. Gina Sanders made me think of a character in a children’s book, a sleek little fox dressed in grown-up clothing.

She eyed me with some alarm. I was rather proud of my outfit; I’d recently discovered a vintage coat from the fifties in a thrift shop, and I loved the way it hugged me tightly to the waist before erupting into a swirl of velvet skirt. Gina, however, was clearly not impressed. It did not help that the melting snow on this blustery January morning had leaked through my old leather boots, which were emitting embarrassing little squeaks with each step. She looked down as I sloshed toward her, then quickly adjusted her face and held out her hand, fingers pointed downward.

“Thank you for coming down to the Village to meet me. I wanted to be sure we wouldn’t be seen.”

Did everyone at Condé Nast think they were being stalked by paparazzi?

She’d obviously expected someone older, more fashionable, and decidedly more formidable. As we made idle small talk, I could sense her questioning Si’s judgment. She remained cool, even distant, until I mentioned that I’d grown up a few blocks away. At that, her entire demeanor changed. “My house is just around the corner!” she cried.

“Which one?” When I was small, Dad walked me up