Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,12

10th Street every morning on the way to P.S. 41. He’d peer into the apartment windows we passed, inventing stories about the people who lived inside. He decided that the man who sat in the bow window, the one who waved whenever we walked by, was a retired sea captain. He made up fantastic adventures for the girl on the fourth floor who looked like Audrey Hepburn. But he didn’t have to dream up stories about the family in what was now Gina’s townhouse; they were old friends.

“Ruth Wittenberg was an amazing woman,” I told Gina. “She fought for suffrage and civil rights, and she was a famous gardener. Your house was always the main feature on Village garden tours, but I was much more interested in the dining room: Phil collected cookbooks, and the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were filled with them. Are they still there?”

Gina made an odd little face, as if she’d swallowed something bitter. “Nothing’s still there. My mother-in-law had Mario Buatta decorate the house as a wedding present.” She leaned in meaningfully, as if I’d empathize.

I didn’t know anything about the decorator—or any decorator, for that matter—but back at the office I looked him up. Buatta favored heavy drapes, patterned fabrics, and overstuffed furniture—conventional comfort at its most luxurious. I thought it was a good sign that Gina didn’t like his style; it seemed meant for older people.

“She seemed nice enough,” I reported to Kathy, “but she struck me as very ordinary.”

“Could you work with her?”

“I don’t see why not. Although,” I couldn’t help adding, “I didn’t get the impression she thought much of me.”

“She must have liked you better than you think.” Kathy’s voice was brisk. “Because Condé Nast just called to make an offer. Do you want to hear the terms?”

Two minutes later I hung up in a daze. All around me the newsroom buzzed, familiar, cheerfully distracting. My fingers shook as I dialed to cancel the reservation at Les Celebrites, the fancy new restaurant I was supposed to be reviewing; Michael and I could not possibly discuss this in the middle of a packed room where we could be overheard. Then, still dizzy, I turned off my computer and picked up my purse.

I considered dinner as I rode the subway. I’d stop at Citarella to buy some shrimp, make that Marcella Hazan pasta Nick and Michael liked so much. I’d get a bottle of wine. A bunch of flowers. Bake brownies.

At home I stood in the kitchen, mind spinning as I stripped shells from the shrimp. In the living room Nick and his friend Zack were doing math homework. The murmur of their voices made this seem like any other day.

“You boys hungry?”

After years of insisting on five white foods, my son’s appetites had abruptly changed; he was now on the constant prowl for interesting snacks. “Any more of those deviled eggs?” he shouted back.

I put the eggs on a plate and carried them into the living room; they were slightly smashed, which gave them a rakish air, but the boys didn’t seem to mind. I’d finished cleaning the shrimp by the time Michael walked in, but I was still at the sink, my hands beneath the running water.

“Are we staying home tonight?” Michael opened the refrigerator, rooting around for a beer, an expression of pleasure on his face.

“Condé Nast made me an offer.”

We’d already discussed the pros and cons; Michael thought I should stay at the Times. He mistrusted Condé Nast—the company was such a revolving door—and was convinced they were more interested in luring a writer away from the Times than in revamping the magazine. Despite Si’s promises, Michael worried that once I got there he’d veto all substantial changes. “I just don’t want you to be disappointed,” he said.

He’d cheered me on at every move, urging me to take jobs at both the Los Angeles Times and The New York Times, and I trusted both his instincts and his judgment. If not for him, I’d still be in Los Angeles.

But he trusted my instincts too. “I haven’t met the man. You have, and if you really believe Si Newhouse is going to let you make the magazine of your dreams, then you should probably take the job.” He retrieved a Heineken and opened a drawer, searching for a bottle opener.

“Don’t you want to hear their offer?” I gave him the figure.

His hands stilled. “Say that again.”

I repeated the number.

“Are you sure you heard right? Six times what you’re