Lynn Hulsman - Summer at Castle Stone

“…but she was assigned the lamb puppets and the bonnet. And she was an hour late,” I heard Matty say behind the curtain.

“My hands are tied. What would you have me do, fire her?” Lizbeth answered.

“Why not? Louise is about to go on maternity leave, so she won’t miss me. Carly is excellent for an intern. She could cover Louise for the last few weeks, and I could just move to Shayla’s desk and work for you. Problem solved.”

“I wish, but I can’t do it. You know who her father is. Besides, things are shifting. In three months, I’m planning to put you into an associate editor spot.”

I sucked on my finger. She was skipping me to promote Matty, that sneaky little medicated bastard! I should pull back the curtain and quit right here and now. Wouldn’t Hank make a meal out of that? “Well, Shayla,” he’d say, “can’t say I didn’t see this coming. Not everyone is cut out for publishing. Takes a thick skin. You’ve always been sensitive, like your mother. Never should have moved her out of Rhinebeck. Dutchess County was more her speed than Manhattan.”

I hated that it was due to Hank’s reputation that I was even hanging on by a thread. It was so unfair! I hated riding on his coattails, but bailing on my job without something better on the horizon would just confirm what he already predicted: I wasn’t born to be a big dog.

I went back to my post, half-heartedly distributing the contents of my bag of bookmarks. At one point, Matty stomped up behind me, and spat, “You’re supposed to be on Cuddle the Lamb .” I stared straight ahead, pretending he wasn’t there. Game on, Matty, I thought to myself. You’re going to need all the Valium and Klonopin you can lay your hands on. I hated being petty, but I couldn’t just stand by and watch him take my promotion. I sensed I couldn’t fully trust him, but I always think the best of people. I hadn’t realized he was a true snake.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked the time. 3:55. I had no idea where I was supposed to pick up Theodore Reichel, and really, there was no one I could ask. I’d have to be shrewd. At the side of booth 1 there was a small, makeshift dais with a table, a stack of his books, and a handful of pens. OK, that’s where I’d take him once I found him. Check! Maybe he was being dropped out front by a car service.

Still dressed in her pinafore and bonnet, Carly whooshed up behind the chair and unrolled a screen-style floor display featuring Theodore Reichel’s face looking serious about the blown-up jacket of his book, and snapped it neatly into place. Shit, shit, shit! I was supposed to be doing that.

To my horror, I saw Lizbeth coming up the aisle, leading Mr. Reichel. That was supposed to be my job, and now my boss was doing it herself.

“Mr. Reichel,” I said, rushing up to them. “I’m Shayla, and I’ll be here to help you with anything you need.” I wedged myself between him and Lizbeth and took him by the arm. “If you’ll step this way, your chair is all set up for you.” Lizbeth looked irritated, but allowed me to guide the elderly gentleman to his seat. She could hardly make a scene. Okay, hurdle one jumped, I thought to myself. If I just keep doing one right thing after another, she’ll forget about my being late. “Can I bring you some water?” He nodded and grunted what I assumed to be assent.

“Back in just a sec,” I said, racing for the staging area. There was a plastic tub of bottled waters floating in what was probably once ice, but was now slightly unclean water. I took out a bottle and wiped it on my dress. “Psst, Carly!” I called. I needed to get her and her Little Bo Peep get-up out of sight. She was a walking reminder that I wasn’t doing the job I’d been assigned. “Lizbeth told me to send you on a coffee run,” I lied. “A cup of tea for Mr. Reichel, and don’t forget my latte. Bring Matty an Americano with an espresso shot.” She looked at me funny. I shrugged, “That’s what he asked for,” I told her with wide eyes. Matty only drank decaf.

I could not believe what was coming out of my mouth. I never lied. To me, it was always more trouble than it was worth. Besides, it felt slimy. Who was I? Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound, I thought. “No, Carly! Go the back way, it’s faster.”

“All right. Tell Lizbeth I’ll be right back,” she called over her shoulder.

“Will do!” I called, giving a huge wave, like I was sending someone out to sea.

I slipped around the curtain and saw that a line was forming at the table. The crowd thickened.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I shouted about the hustle and bustle of the expo. “If you’d like to purchase a book, step to the left. If you have a book to be signed and would like to meet Mr. Reichel, please step to the right.” Pleased with myself, I stepped up onto the dais and positioned myself behind and to the right of the author. I felt cool, like a royal guard or a secret service agent.

I heard her before I saw her. It’s hard to believe the click-clack of those Chanel pumps as worn by a 90-pound woman could be loud enough to carry, but it did. Hurtling toward the HPC area was the crazy lady from the lobby, flanked by the two uniformed NYPD officers. “Step right up, please,” I told the first woman in line. “If you could all have your books open to the title page, that would be a great help to Mr. Reichel,” I advised, stepping down off the dais to cut off the officers at the pass. I’d simply ask them not to disturb my author, and let them know I’d find them to make a statement after the signing. As I stepped down, the be-Chaneled gnome in the giant bug glasses tried to step up. The officers appeared at her side in a flash, lifting her like a dancer from a 1960s Broadway musical onto the level with the renowned media-dodger and hermit, Theodore Reichel.

“Ma’am!” I said sharply from the ground. “This is a private event. You cannot be up there.” She ignored me, walked over and took Reichel’s hand.

“Ma’am!” I said sternly.

“This is my wife,” the author said. The old lady whispered something in his ear.

“One moment, ladies and gentlemen,” I shouted to the crowd. “Please continue to open your books to the title page to assist Mr. Reichel. Officers,” I whispered, beckoning them near, “I can explain. You see, she attacked me. ” I leaned in, “She’s very confused. I won’t press charges, I have a soft spot for the elderly.” I smiled humbly as they stared at me. Maybe I wasn’t exactly a hero, but I was impressed with my own maturity. They must be grateful for my making their job just that much easier. I flashed them a winning smile.

I stepped up and put my hand on Reichel’s shoulder just as Lizbeth was easing the old woman off the other side of the dais. Matty rushed forward to grab a wizened, silk-covered arm. “I am so sorry about that, Mr. Reichel.” I glanced sideways to see Lizbeth bent double, the Park Avenue Madame whispering into her ear.

Sick with dread, I made myself look at Lizbeth.

“You’re fired,” she mouthed.

There is nothing so bad that it couldn’t be worse.

Maggie opened the door to the apartment like she was entering a hospital room.

“Hello?” she said, softly knocking on the half-open door, even though she lives here.

“No point tap-dancing around it; I got fired.” I was sitting at the kitchen table in my pajamas and bathrobe, my hair pulled back into the scrunchie I used when I washed my face. I had the stolen cashmere pashmina from my agent’s office wrapped around my shoulders like a shawl. Spread out in front of me was an open bottle of sauvignon blanc, a glass, and Tom O’Grady’s bio materials.