Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,14

zipped the suitcase closed. “I’m sorry you’re facing this alone.”

Nick came in, bouncing the pink rubber ball he always kept in his pocket, and looked up at Michael. “Are you taking me to school?” There was a wistful note in his voice; he hated having either of us leave town.

Michael punched him lightly on the arm. “Don’t look so sad, pal; it’s only a few days.”

Nick slipped his hand into Michael’s and we all walked to the hallway to wait for the elevator. I felt queasy; everything was about to change. I hoped this wasn’t a huge mistake.

* * *

—

THE DONUT MAN on the corner of 43rd Street and Broadway handed me coffee and a jelly donut; after six years, he knew exactly what I wanted. “Give me one for Stan too,” I said. Kassim nodded; I often took coffee to my favorite guards. They, in turn, occasionally shared the giant sandwiches they bought at the Big Apple Meat Market on Ninth Avenue, which was famous for its overstuffed heroes.

“You’re in early.” Stan was a beefy, talkative man who loved telling me about his favorite restaurants on Staten Island. I was going to miss him, miss this little ritual that started every day.

I pushed through the security turnstile, wondering about the guards over at Condé Nast; thanks to the cloak-and-dagger manner in which we’d conducted our affair, I’d never been inside the building.

Upstairs, the style section was still empty and I looked around, taking in the details, already nostalgic. A tan cardigan sat sentinel at Alex Witchel’s pristine desk, a warning to interloping freelancers that she might be right back. Elaine Louie’s desk overflowed in its usual state of chaos. I watched a startled mouse leap across the jumbled papers and disappear beneath the desk Trish Hall used. The former editor of the dining section still came in from time to time; I hoped the mouse would be gone by the time she arrived. I was going to miss these people, miss the easy camaraderie with my colleagues; there was always someone to talk to, someone who’d come upstairs for a cup of coffee or go out for a bite to eat.

Gourmet would be different: Nobody wants to gossip with the boss. It must be unpleasant, I thought, to be surrounded by people who are afraid of you.

But even when Trish Hall was at her most powerful, she’d never thrown her weight around and never insisted she knew more than you did. She was also completely candid about wanting to work with people she could learn from. My first boss, Rosalie Wright, had been much the same. Rosalie is the toughest person I’ve ever met: She bucked enormous pressure to run major investigative articles in New West. When powerful people pulled strings and made threats as they attempted to stop the first negative stories about Jim Jones’s Peoples Temple, she was fearless. “The story’s solid and it’s shocking,” she said, refusing to give in. But Rosalie never pulled rank; if she was alone in the office, she’d take phone messages for you, and she was constantly saying, “You’re the expert. What do you think?” Unlike the men I’d worked for, Rosalie managed to be in charge without ever being a boss. It came to me that I had excellent role models; I just had to keep them firmly anchored in my mind.

I called Joe’s secretary, who promised to let me know the moment he arrived. Edgy and anxious, I occupied myself by taking down the papers pinned to the bulletin board above my desk. Phone numbers: Nick’s pediatrician, the vet, various babysitters. A note from Mike Nichols, thanking me for taking him on a review. A snapshot of Nick standing upright on Michael’s shoulders. It was ancient history: They stopped performing that trick the year Nick turned six.

The secretary called to say Joe would see me now, and I went downstairs, heart thumping as I entered his office. Joe looked up and uttered exactly two words. “Condé Nast?”

I nodded and his lips turned down.

Rumor had it that Joe was angry about Si poaching his people; Paul Goldberger had recently left to be the architecture critic of The New Yorker. “What will you be doing there?” he asked grimly.

“I’m going to edit Gourmet.”

His expression quickly changed. “I can’t blame you for being tempted by that.” He was almost smiling. “It’s a wonderful opportunity.” Now it was actually a grin. “My wife’s a longtime subscriber.” Why was he so