Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,90

our Christmas cookies?” they’d suggested one day. “Everybody likes cookies, but some people don’t like to bake. We could donate the proceeds to charity.”

Before long, Richard had designed clever display carts and elegant packaging. In the end they also invented a line of Gourmet Christmas-cookie cards, complete with recipes. Larry did the numbers. “It’ll be a nice little revenue stream,” he concluded.

We’d also managed, with great difficulty, to persuade the circulation people to include a subscription to the magazine with every copy of our huge new cookbook. It made the thirty-five-dollar cover price a serious bargain and was a painless way to increase Gourmet’s subscriber base. I left for the book tour as the first reviews were coming in, and I knew Si was going to be pleased; we would hit the bestseller list again. For once I left town with a happy heart.

A week into the tour I landed in Seattle, one of my favorite cities, and went to lunch with a reporter from the Post-Intelligencer. The interview had just begun when my phone began to ring. Tom Wallace’s number floated onto my screen.

“Yes?” In my current mood, I expected more good news. Even when Tom said I was wanted in New York, I didn’t get it.

“I have to be in Portland tomorrow, promoting the cookbook.”

“Forget Portland,” he said. “You’re needed in New York.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Just come back.” His tone had turned ominous. “Be in the office tomorrow.”

It finally dawned on me that this was the call I’d been anticipating for ten years: I was about to be fired. To my surprise there was no panic, only sadness. I hoped the next editor would not clean house and everyone would be safe, but for myself I felt no fear. It wouldn’t last—I knew that—but in the moment what I felt mostly was relief.

Almost everything I’d cherished about my job had vanished, leaving me feeling like little more than a salesman. I’d always known I was just a visitor in Si’s luxuryland, and the thrill of all those perks had faded. I told myself that I could do without the fancy hotels, the limos, and the clothing allowance; Paris had shown me that I didn’t need them. Peering into the future, I thought how different my life was going to be without the people who made my life so easy: Robin, Karen, Mustafa. Then I reassured myself that I still had all the people who really mattered: Michael, Nick, Bob, a large group of wonderful friends. I reminded myself of all the books I still wanted to write. This, I repeated over and over, was going to be fine.

I took the red-eye to New York, sitting up all night, but when I got to the office Robin was looking even more ragged than I felt. “They want us all in the conference room at ten,” she said.

“All of us?” I was stunned; I could hardly believe that Si was going to turn this into a public spectacle, fire me in front of my own staff. It did not seem like him; he was not a cruel man.

We filed in grimly and stood silently watching as Si strolled in among us. He was brief. “After long deliberation, we have decided to close Gourmet.”

We looked at one another, uncomprehending. Close Gourmet? Surely we’d misunderstood. They could fire us all. Take the magazine in a new direction. But they could not shut down such a revered institution. A world without Gourmet was unimaginable.

“It’s very sad,” Si added.

“How soon do we need to be out of here?” I don’t remember who shouted the question.

“That’s immaterial.” Si was at his most imperious, and for a moment we all relaxed; the end was not imminent. The closing, at least, would be slow, orderly, dignified. “Your key cards will work today,” he continued. “And tomorrow. Until five P.M.”

It was like a sucker punch; we hadn’t seen it coming. Tomorrow? We had to be out tomorrow? Glances flew wildly around the room as we absorbed his meaning: It was immaterial to him. As far as Si was concerned, Gourmet was already gone.

“What about the December issue?” With its big units, its exclusive business, and its five covers, December was already at the printer.

“There will be no December issue.”

Someone—who?—began to sob.

This seemed to galvanize Si. “Human Resources will be available to answer any questions.” They were the last words I ever heard him say.

We stood, staring at the empty space where he had stood. Doc put his