Jo Leigh - Ms. Taken

“What are you talking about?”

“Does the ad come out today?”

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do if she calls?”

“I’m going to answer the phone.”

“Ha ha. Very amusing.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Don’t you do it! Don’t—”

He did. David would get over it. His former roommate and closest friend had several annoying habits, like calling in the morning when Charles needed the line free for his brokers. The Asian market didn’t care about his Christmas plans, and neither, frankly, did Charles. The holidays were highly overrated and damned inconvenient. Business ground to a halt each year for the weeks before, during and after. But then, this year might be different. What he hadn’t mentioned to David was that he hoped to be getting married during the lull. If Holly called. If she wasn’t married already. If…

What the hell was he doing?

The thought came from nowhere, the words not even his. It was David in his head, warning him away from his very sensible plan. David, who thought his license as a psychiatrist gave him some kind of unique insight into the human condition. But David was a sentimentalist.

Still, the echo of a doubt lingered. Charles had never figured out why he’d broken up with Holly. That was all. Once they met again, it wouldn’t matter.

At least, he hoped it wouldn’t matter. The last thing on earth he wanted to do was date. The mere word made him quake with dread. The fact was, he was bad at it. He didn’t like to do things he was bad at.

He left the bathroom and found his breakfast on the dining room table: a six-minute egg, one slice of unbuttered toast and coffee. The New York Times was already laid out, courtesy of Ellen, his housekeeper, who was at that moment putting away dishes from the dishwasher.

“Morning, Mr. Warren,” she said.

He nodded as he took his seat, then his gaze landed on the headlines. Ellen vanished as he started to read.

ONE CHICKEN LEG. Seven cashews. Three celery stalks. An apple. Half a sesame bagel. Excellent. Jane closed her lunch pail and flicked the lock into place. She’d go by the newsstand before she hit the subway. The ad was due out today. A shiver of apprehension raced up her spine when she thought about Holly Baskin. Would she read the magazine? Would she look in the personals? Would she call?

As Jane trotted down all six flights of stairs leading to the street, she wondered yet again if she should have substituted her want ad for his. She didn’t like to think of herself as selfish. But then, Charles didn’t even know she’d written an alternate ad, so where was the harm? She’d done as he’d requested. Period. No explanations would be needed.

Even though she hadn’t done anything wrong, she still felt guilty. Not robbing-a-bank guilty, but enough to make her uncomfortable. If she really loved him, she would have substituted her ad for his. Because with real love, you’re supposed to care more for the other person than you do for yourself, right?

She did love him, that much she knew. But sometimes it wasn’t easy. He was so busy. Under such stress. He worked too hard, that’s for sure. And he laughed way too seldom.

She walked out onto the street and pulled on her gloves as she headed toward the corner. The snow under her feet had turned mushy and brown, slippery, too. It was a good thing she’d left a few minutes early. Charles hated anyone being late. It was really a thing with him. It wouldn’t do her a bit of good to use getting his magazine as an excuse. Lateness, according to Charles, had no excuse.

At least she had time to look at the Christmas decorations in the windows. Her mother was appalled that she lived in Harlem, positive Jane would end up dead in some alley, but her mother didn’t understand Brand Avenue. Although Jane hadn’t met many of her neighbors, the ones she did know were as nice as they could be. Mrs. Franklin, who lived over the butcher shop, had helped her find some gorgeous velvet once, which Jane had used to make her favorite purse. Teddy at the newsstand sometimes liked to talk about books. Very nice people, indeed. Real people.

Even the butcher shop looked festive this morning with all its pretty decorations. The dead chickens hanging in the window almost looked like reindeer.

“Good morning, Miss Jane.”

“Hi, Teddy. How are you?”

The older man, she had no idea how old, shook his head. “Not great, Jane. Not great.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’ but old. Old hurts.”

“It doesn’t have to. I know you don’t eat well, and I’ll wager you don’t take any vitamins, either.”

“Vitamins? Are you crazy? You don’t know what they put in them things. They’re hauling pills off the counters every day.”

“You’re talking about herbs. I’m talking One-A-Day multiples.”

“The only thing I need once a day is a piece of apple pie.”

“My point exactly.”

He grinned at her, at the argument they’d had a hundred times. She wished he would take better care, though.

“What can I get you today?”

“I need a copy of Attitudes.”

“That all?”

“That’s all.”

He gave her the magazine and she gave him five dollars. When he turned to ring up her change, she darted away. “Hey!”

“Have a good day!” she called over her shoulder. Then she waved as she walked down the subway steps.

CHARLES UNLOCKED his office door, then flipped on the light switch. He liked being the first one in. Normally, Mrs. Robinson would have been here, would have had his coffee ready along with his agenda. But he wasn’t helpless. He knew how to make coffee, and he knew how to work a calendar. He missed his routine, that’s all. He liked it when the world worked like a well-oiled machine.

He put his briefcase down, then took off his coat and his kidskin gloves. Ben, his driver, had had to drop him off down the street this morning, and Charles’s shoes had paid the price. The construction on the building had become increasingly annoying, and he wished they’d finish. It wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, though, so he’d better make a note to wear his galoshes for a while.

In the meantime, he had to go to his washroom and work for a considerable time to repair the damage to the Italian leather. When he finished, he made coffee, and the moment he turned on the machine, the phone rang.

For Charles, the sound was like the gun at the start of a race, sending him into his day. It would be Frank Toyamichi calling from Japan. Charles had an appointment with Bob Riverside and his people at nine. Lunch, as usual, at Charlemagne. His attorneys were due this afternoon, and tonight David was taking him to an auction at Christie’s where he hoped to purchase a rocking chair that had once belonged to Jack Kennedy.

“Charles Warren,” he said into the speaker phone as he settled into his chair.

“Mr. Warren. It’s Frank. I have the numbers for you.”

Charles glanced at the clock. It was exactly sevenfifteen. Frank was a good man. A punctual man. Charles liked things punctual.

SHE WAS LATE. The subway train had been delayed more than ten minutes several miles before her Wall Street station. She’d passed the time reading the magazine in her lap, returning again and again to the personals. To the unadorned ad. “Holly Baskin, late of Vassar, call C.W.”

Holly. Certainly an appropriate name for the season. She’d be blond, of course. Or maybe her hair would be chestnut. Those Vassar girls liked chestnut.

She’d be beautiful, too. Slender, with good ankles and perky B cups. She’d have impeccable taste in all things. She’d know the right restaurants, the right wine, the right jewelers, the right people. She’d be the perfect complement to everything that Charles was. Only…