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  Brookside Senior Care is about forty-five minutes outside the city by train and cab. I got some reading done on the train so I was feeling pretty good when I arrived. The moment I walked through the door, Violet squealed, “Ellie! So good to see you again. You’re just in time for the dinner trays. You want the mason jars?”

  “Hey, Violet,” I responded, instantly relaxing. “I love your scrubs.” They were a deep pink shade that accented her mocha skin. “I think we’re going with the vases tonight. There are some really nice roses here.”

  “You got it, girl. Come into the break room. You can drop your stuff behind the desk.”

  There’s something therapeutic about flower arranging, cutting the stems, inhaling the fragrance, presenting a bloom in a way that best reveals its beauty. Soon after I’d started, one of the Eldercare Financial Specialists, Margaret May, entered and gave me a big hug. “Hi darling,” she said with a warm smile. “Emma Rose is going to be so happy. Do me a favor, stop by my office when you’re done in here.”

  When I’d made enough mini-bouquets for the dinner trays, I made one extra for Margaret May and walked over to her office. Her assistant Brett told me to go right in.

  “So I thought we’d take a moment to go over your mother’s accounts,” she said after thanking me for the flowers and clearing a place for them on her desk. “There’ve been some changes in her regimen and they’re impacting costs.”

  “Oh,” I said, worry creasing my brow. “In what way?”

  “Well, let’s just review here.” She pulled out a thick file. “So, even though your mom is in a private room right now, she’s still being charged for a shared room since we don’t have any shares available at the moment. So that’s $3,000 monthly. The difference is the new meds. Pharmaceuticals have increased from around $200 a month to $1,600 per, and unfortunately these new Alzheimer’s meds are not covered by her insurance.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s a bump.”

  “Yes it is,” she nodded sympathetically. “I know. And at this rate, her account will be drained in about twenty-six months.”

  I didn’t have to speak. She read it all on my face.

  “We’ll figure something out, Ellie,” she said, reaching over to give my shoulder a light squeeze. “Let’s look at your options.” She turned her attention back to the file on her desk and began to check off a list. “You’ve already converted her life insurance policy into a long-term care benefit. And you sold the house. What about the cabin in the Hudson Valley?”

  “It’s tiny. Probably not worth more than seventy, maybe eighty thousand dollars.”

  She nodded and jotted the figure down. “Would you be willing to liquidate?”

  “I—” Years of warm summer vacation memories flashed through my mind, but I pushed them away and squared my jaw. “I guess I’ll have to.”

  Margaret May nodded, absently tapping her pen. “Do you have any savings?”

  “Not enough to keep up two rents,” I said, staring at my hands fisted in my lap. “Unless I give up my apartment, maybe look for something smaller?” Though I wasn’t sure how much smaller I could get, considering my current place was already the size of a shoebox.

  She closed the file and slid it to the corner of her desk, spreading her hands. “Listen Ellie, don’t worry about it just yet. We’ll talk again, figure out a plan. I’m in your corner. For now, let’s get you over to Emma Rose before it gets too late.”

  When I arrived at my mom’s room, the new nurse Penny was clearing her dinner tray. I tried to ignore all the familiar shades of beige, the scuffed linoleum floors, the smell of disinfectant. Instead I held out the flowers toward my mother and forced a grin onto my face. Mom squealed with delight when she saw me, and Penny stepped aside to give us space.

  “Penny,” Mom exclaimed, “this is Cecilia, my best friend!”

  I smiled, ignoring the tightness in my throat. My mother hadn’t recognized me in six months. And during recent visits she’d become convinced that I was Cecilia Reynolds, her best friend from the early years of my parents’ marriage. It was always awkward and kind of gut-wrenching, but I figured if I had to be Cecilia to spend time with my mom, then Cecilia I would be.

  Penny knew it wasn’t easy for me. She smiled supportively. “Hello there, Cecilia,” she said, playing along. “Would you like some water or coffee?”

  “No thank you, Penny,” I replied. “It’s really nice to meet you. Emma Rose, how are you feeling?”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” she said. Then pointedly to the nurse, “Penny was just leaving. Come on, Ceci darling, come tell me about your date!”

  She reached out her hand and I went over to her and accepted it, noticing how crepey the skin had become before bringing it lightly to my cheek.

  “Okay, where should I begin?” I asked, settling into the chair beside her bed.

  “Well, where did he take you?” she prompted, leaning forward with a small smile.

  “Dinner and a movie,” I ventured.

  “Nice, nice,” she nodded approvingly. “What did you two see?”

  I wracked my brain for a film from the 50s. “Giant?”

  “Oooh, Harold and I saw that!” she exclaimed. “Don’t you love that James Dean? Do you think I’d look good with short hair?” she asked, suddenly insecure. “I’d really love short hair like Elizabeth Taylor but I don’t think Harold would approve.”

  I recalled the succession of hair colors and styles my mother had gone through over the years. “Oh, I think Harold will love you no matter how you style your hair,” I replied. “In fact, I’m sure of it.”

  “Don’t you adore that scene where Jett hits oil and shows up at Leslie’s covered in black slick?”

  “Oh, yes,” I replied, wishing I’d seen the movie. I made a mental note: next time Cecilia and James would go bowling.

  “Well,” she urged, conspiratorially. “Did he?”

  I tried to cover my confusion by matching her covert tone. “Did he what?”

  “Did he kiss you!?”

  “Oh no,” I responded. “He was a perfect gentleman.”

  “Doesn’t sound perfect to me,” she replied with a wink. “Maybe next time.” And she patted my arm.

  Then we sat silently for several minutes; she had a mischievous look on her face. Finally she erupted, “Aren’t you going to ask me about my date?”

  “Of course,” I said. “How was your date?”

  She gave a very loaded reply. “We went to the drive-in.”

  “What did you see?” I asked, not sure I wanted to hear the answer.

  “Not much of the movie,” she laughed. “But this time I made him wear protection.”

  “Oh really,” I said, flustered and silently praying I wouldn’t have to hear about my parents’ sexual exploits.

  “Yes,” she said with some conviction. “I don’t want to get sidetracked. I’ve worked so hard and I want my degree. You know better than anyone, Ceci, that my father did not want me going to Barnard. He considers it a waste of my time and his money.”

  That caught me by surprise. I hadn’t known that. It was always fascinating to spend time with this version of her, the woman she was before I was even born. Here was this person, so well-known to me and yet so unfamiliar.

  “It’s cost me a lot to do this and I am going to be a psychologist,” she continued. “I can’t let anyone keep me from that—not even Harold. Of course, he keeps saying he’s ready. Ready for babies! Of course the man is ready for babies! But I’ll have my practice first. I’ll conduct studies and write books and teach classes. Then, some day, I’ll have five fat bouncing bundles.”

  Looking into her glowing eyes, brimming with promise and determination, I was struck by how youthful she seemed.

  “I’ll have three girls and two boys! And I’ll sing them lullabies and rock them in my arms and hold their chubby little hands as I teach them to walk. And I’ll make sure they live their dreams too. Someday I’ll be the best mother.”

&nb
sp; And I thought, “Mom, I’m here. I’m right here.” But of course I didn’t say it. Instead, I hugged her, hiding my face in her soft white hair. And I whispered gently into her ear, “Yes. Yes you will.”

  5

  The train ride back to the city was uneventful. I read a manuscript. On the way home I stopped at the corner store and grabbed some veggies and a lemon so I could whip up my go-to quickie dinner of lemon ricotta macaroni and steamed green beans with sliced almonds thrown on top. A girl’s gotta eat. It wasn’t until 10:00 p.m., while I was brushing my teeth, that my phone finally beeped with a new email from Ford. “Tomorrow, 10:30 a.m. I’ll call you.”

  Shit. I had a marketing meeting at 11:00. And Louise Hayden gets particularly—how shall I put this—“colorful” when people are late. I considered emailing him back and asking for a raincheck. But then I thought better of it.

  The next morning I informed Carolyn that I might be a few minutes late to the marketing meeting as Ford would be calling at 10:30. She raised a brow and asked if I wanted to give Louise’s office a head’s up, but I thought it best to play it by ear. For one thing, I wasn’t really sure he was going to call. And if he did, it might be a rather brief conversation. Especially if I was getting fired.

  But at 10:30 on the dot, my phone rang, and I didn’t need caller ID to know it had to be him. I could just feel it. I snatched up the receiver and held it to my ear before Carolyn could intercept the call.

  “Hello, Mr. Ford,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For giving me another chance.” I sat up straighter in my chair, pulled my shoulders back, and mentally pumped myself up as best I could. This time, I’d be in control. Or at least if I wasn’t, I’d keep my head above water. After all, my job was on the line—and so was Jackson’s book. Soon enough he’d have to either agree to work with me on this project or ask Louise to reassign him to another editor, and I was determined he’d choose the former. No matter what it took.

  “It won’t happen again,” he sneered. Can someone sneer over the phone?

  “I understand,” I said. “But you won’t regret it.” I hoped.

  “Let’s hope I don’t.” Jackson’s voice went low. “And now I want the truth, Ellie.”

  The way his words thrummed in my ear, I had no choice but to cross my legs as tightly as possible and try to maintain control of my breathing.

  “What do you want to know?” I asked, glad he couldn’t hear the sound of my heart pounding across the line.

  He paused for a moment. Then he asked, “Have you ever tried to write a novel?”

  “No,” I answered, startled to find he hadn’t gone straight for the sexy (but clearly work-inappropriate) danger zone again.

  “Do you think you could?”

  “Not a good one,” I laughed. I eased back in my chair, slipping out of my heels and letting myself relax a little. Maybe it had all been a test. Maybe he’d be different now, more professional.

  “How many other books are you editing right now?”

  “Four. Now it’s four.”

  “Did you bring in the authors, or were the projects assigned to you?”

  “I acquired one of them myself. Phoebe Demeris.” I was proud of my work with Phoebe, and I knew my voice would convey that.

  “Demeris. . . she wrote that thriller about the blind girl growing up in Santa Fe, didn’t she?” He seemed impressed.

  “Yes, she did,” I said.

  “I liked that book. It was very well crafted.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that. It’s actually part one of a trilogy,” I divulged. “In the next one, Rose was going to regain her sight, but I suggested we save that for the third book. So as it stands now, she just becomes aware of shapes and colors, and nobody knows if she’ll get better or regress. That solved a lot of plot issues and helps maintain the narrative momentum.”

  “That sounds like good advice.”

  I waited for the “but,” or the sarcasm, or the punch line to come in, but Jackson was serious. And I was flattered. “Thank you.”

  “I also heard you worked with Don Temple,” he went on, referencing the notorious editor for whom I interned before coming to DR. “He’s a hard-ass.”

  I just laughed, tossing my little foam stress ball from hand to hand. It was shaped like the earth; Maggie had gotten it for me when my big promotion had come through—“Since now you have the world in your hands,” she’d explained.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said yesterday,” he continued. “About what Garrett Addison was like before he became a master spy. There’s something interesting about the idea of exploring his first mission.”

  “That would be great,” I said. “And in a prequel, the action wouldn’t have to be so fantastical, as it’s been in the recent books. It could be more realistic, more. . . gritty. So there’s real impact to the deaths. Garrett’s less experienced, so there’d be more tension, more setbacks, more doubt about whether he’ll succeed. And we’d have the opportunity for some real intimacy in the sex acts.”

  “Hmm.” I could hear the wheels turning. “That’s an interesting direction.” Then he was quiet for a bit.

  Finally, I said, “So. . . what are our next steps? Do you want to start fresh, go straight to pages, or take a few days to—”

  “Ellie, stop. Just listen to me.” The dead calm of Jackson’s voice put me on edge. Did he call me just to glean all my ideas and then fire me anyway? “If we’re going to work together, there’s no room for pretense.”

  Wait, what? “Okay. . .” I agreed hesitantly.

  “I’ve told you I’ve fantasized about you. So tell me the truth. Did you think about me when you masturbated Friday night?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, tightened my fist around the stress ball, and prayed Carolyn wasn’t listening in on the extension. “. . .Yes,” I said.

  For a few moments we seemed to breathe together, Jackson and I. I tried not to imagine him touching himself wherever he was, phone cradled between his ear and shoulder, the metallic clink of his belt buckle as he unfastened it. Ellie, stop!

  “What was your fantasy?” he murmured.

  I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks, feel my heartbeat pounding in my chest, the flush of heat between my thighs. I silently counted to three and slowly shook my head, wondering to myself, “What the hell am I doing?” Then I committed to my decision, adjusted the receiver against my ear, and began to speak.

  “It started with your email,” I confessed. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it.” He groaned softly in response. “I thought about you pulling up my skirt. Biting my neck. I could hear you grunting as you fucked my ass, and it turned me on.”

  “What were you wearing?” he asked.

  I closed my eyes, letting the memory surface. “I was naked. I was in the shower.”

  “Go on.”

  “The water was hot.” I lowered my voice as I stepped over to the door, shutting it quietly before returning to my chair. “I was holding the showerhead against my breasts, letting the spray sting my nipples. First one, then the other. Then I started to imagine you, in my office.”

  I couldn’t believe I was doing this, that we were doing this. But it was too late to turn back. And I wouldn’t have stopped it even if I could. Instead, I put one hand over my chest, feeling the low throb of my pulse under the warm skin there.

  “You enter and I cross to greet you, hand extended,” I went on. “You ignore my gesture. You reach out and pull me toward you and you kiss me, deeply. Hungrily. I’m surprised, but it’s good and we kiss for a while. One of your hands trails down my neck, across my collarbone, and then cups my breast and I say, ‘Lock the door.’ You look at me, your eyes dark, and you say, ‘No.’ You’re looking right into me, challenging. ‘Get on your knees.’

  “I look back and forth from your eyes to the door. ‘On your knees,’ you repeat. You’re firm, but gentle. And I kneel.”

  My nipples were so h
ard they were aching, tingling against the lace fabric of my bra, and I could hear Jackson’s breathing getting heavier too. “Don’t stop,” he growled. “Tell me what’s next.”

  I couldn’t stop the wicked smile on my face, but I obeyed Ford’s command. “You begin unbuckling your belt, but I take over, fumbling with your zipper, freeing your hard-on. It’s gorgeous. I’m hungry for you and you know it. ‘Go on,’ you say, your voice hoarse. ‘Take it in your mouth.’”

  On the other end of the phone, his breath was coming faster, in quick bursts. I could feel my heart pounding even harder as I realized: he was jerking off. My breath quickened, too, and I felt that familiar tingling in my thighs.

  “I trace the tip with my tongue first,” I continued, “but instead of wrapping my lips around your cock right away, I take your balls into my mouth, sucking them. ‘Oh God,’ you’re saying. ‘Oh God.’ Now I lavish your shaft with my tongue, teasing you, lubricating your cock. You’re so hard. I take you in my fist and start pumping with my hand, steady and strong, then lower my lips over the swollen knob, my mouth and hand in perfect rhythm. ‘That’s it, that’s it,’ you say. ‘Suck my cock. Suck it.’ I taste your salty pre-cum and I know you’re close. I look up at you. ‘Fuck my face,’ I whisper.”

  On the phone, I heard him groan. He liked that. I shot a quick glance at the door to my office, making sure it was still shut tightly, moved my chair further under my desk, and slipped a hand down between my legs to give my pussy a quick squeeze. The pressure in my clit was incredible. I almost could have made myself come right then, but I forced my focus back to Jackson Ford, back to giving him exactly what he wanted.

  “‘Fuck my face,’” I repeated into the phone. “And you don’t hesitate. Your fingers are in my hair now, you’re holding my head, thrusting in and out of my mouth, taking control and losing it at the same time. I’m gagging as you start shooting down my throat, and you cry out, ‘Drink it. Drink my cum.’ And I drink.”