Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,57

Seasons lunch—and the annual speculation about who would be seated where. The press parsed the iconography as if it were the Last Supper. According to the accepted wisdom, sitting with Si was an excellent omen, and a seat near Truman or Florio was a sure sign of favor. Maurie’s table, on the other hand, was considered bad luck; it was widely believed to mean that this was your last lunch.

I was relieved to be seated next to Si. But as soon as I sat down, I began to fret: What on earth was I going to say once he’d finished his holiday remarks?

He stood and stammered to a start, launching into a speech so disjointed I began to fear he’d drift off in the middle and simply stare into space. Then, amazingly, his cadence changed, picking up speed as he proudly enumerated the year’s achievements. Circulation was soaring, ad revenues rocketing, and his pride was so palpable that as he rambled to a close someone at the next table murmured, “Si certainly seems pleased with himself.”

“Why not?” It was a publisher I didn’t recognize, making no attempt to keep her voice down. “We blew past Hachette, we blew past Hearst, and now we’re right on the heels of Time Inc. The New Yorker’s stopped hemorrhaging money, and all the people who laughed at Si are being forced to eat their words.”

I was grateful to the anonymous publisher; I now knew exactly what to say. “It’s really a pleasure,” I began as Si sat down, “to be working for a company that trusts the intelligence of its readers. I think you’re the only American publisher who does. You must be proud it’s finally paying off.”

He looked at me for such a long time that I wondered if I’d overstepped. At last he nodded. “Yes,” he said, stabbing a fork through the crust of his chicken potpie; it shattered with a satisfying crack.

I looked around, searching out Giulio, hoping he’d noticed where I was seated. When I finally found him—at Maurie’s table—all the pleasure drained out of me. He was apparently among the doomed.

Christmas presents were always delivered while we were at lunch, and Robin was waiting with undisguised impatience to see what Si’s card said. Extracting it from the envelope, she read Si’s large, spiky script: “ ‘I have the greatest regard for the fine magazine you’re making.’ ”

“Is that good or bad?” I was still clueless when it came to deciphering the inscrutable Condé Nast code.

“Very good.”

She handed me a small turquoise box tied with a big white bow. “This one’s from Florio.”

“Do you know what it is?”

She smiled. “Take it home and let Nick open it; I think he’ll like it.”

What, I wondered, could Tiffany possibly produce to thrill a thirteen-year-old boy?

* * *

—

“COOL!” SAID NICK when I handed him the box at dinner. Untying the ribbon, he extracted a soft felt bag with TIFFANY & CO. printed on the flap. When he gave it a shake, a shiny silver object came tumbling out. Nick held it in the palm of his hand, staring down at his reflection.

“A yo-yo?” Michael was incredulous. “Steve Florio sent you a sterling silver yo-yo?”

“Cool!” Nick said again.

Michael made a strangled sound. Nick and I both turned to look at him.

“What’s wrong?” I asked as Nick stared down at the gleaming yo-yo as if it held a secret he was trying to decode.

Michael looked at me. “Do I really have to spell it out?”

I regarded the lustrous toy, and then I reached over, took the thing out of Nick’s hand, slid it back into the fuzzy blue bag, and set it in its box. The turquoise cube sat on the table, throbbing color as we all stared at it. For a moment no one spoke. Then the phone began to ring, and with a look of enormous relief Nick ran to get it.

“It’s for you, Mom.” He handed me the receiver, mouthing, “Florio.”

There was no preamble, and Florio didn’t beat around the bush. “It’s Giulio.” His voice was crisp, carrying none of its usual ingratiating charm. “His numbers aren’t good, and we think we made a mistake. We brought him along too fast.”

“What are you saying?”

“He’s not ready. We thought he could be a publisher, but we were wrong. We want to get you someone more seasoned, but before I make the change, I wanted to check with you.”

“It’s only been a few months….” I began. “Don’t you think you should give him