Jake McKenna watched anxiously as her taxi slowly made its way through the rush hour traffic clogging Sixth Avenue. It was a sunny day, unusually warm for the beginning of June. Jake rolled down her window, but the infusion of outside air was hotter, if anything, than the air inside.
She would have to learn to budget her time better in the future. No more browsing in shop windows when she had somewhere to go. No more chatting with interesting-looking strangers who also happened to be looking for a cab. No more dallying of any kind. She gave herself the same lecture whenever she was late for an important meeting. If only she could get herself to listen.
It was nearly a quarter after nine when she stepped from the cab, almost forgetting to retrieve her all-important portfolio. She swung it at her side as she hurried toward the entrance of the building. She scanned the slip of paper she held to check what floor she was to go to. Twenty-six. She found the correct elevator bank quickly. Once inside the cubicle, she surveyed her appearance in the reflection of its shiny silver walls.
Her auburn hair was tousled from her sprint from cab to building. Her blue linen dress was twisted and there was a smudge on her left cheek, she didn’t know from what. She leaned the large, rectangular portfolio against the wall and made the necessary adjustments.
How to explain her lateness this time? Potential employers generally didn’t accept excuses such as subway delays or getting stuck in elevators anymore. Damn! She really needed this job, too. Working freelance just wasn’t cutting it anymore, not with Dani about to start a new school in September. The tuition was nearly five thousand dollars. She’d only saved half that. She’d never come up with the rest without a regular income. Maybe she’d just lie and say she thought her appointment was for nine-thirty.
The elevator doors opened. Jake picked up the portfolio and stepped out, fighting down a sudden urge to turn back. She’d never held a nine-to-five job in her life. The thought of accepting one now–if one were offered to her–was both frightening and daunting. She couldn’t think about her own feelings on the matter, though. She had Dani to consider now.
The entrance to the floor was to her left. On the right hand side of the opening archway big chrome letters declared, Ebony Man. At least she was in the right place, though she wasn’t sure what kind of a place it was. Liza really hadn’t told her much about the magazine or the man she was about to see. For all she knew, it was one of those magazines. She didn’t object to nudity if it was handled tastefully, like in art class. Men’s magazines were another story.
She strode up to the receptionist seated at the large, black desk and smiled. “I’m Jake McKenna. I’m here to see Mr. Fitzgerald.”
How calm her voice sounded, like she really belonged in this office decorated in several shades of gray and black, with touches of purple for color. Even the receptionist didn’t vary from the theme. She wore a black knit dress and her gray hair was neatly tied back with a lavender scarf.
“Mr. Fitzgerald is in the studio,” the receptionist said without smiling. “You’re late, you know.”
Jake raised her eyebrows at the receptionist’s presumptuous statement. “Am I?” She made a show of looking at her newly acquired watch. “My appointment was for nine-thirty,” she said with as much conviction as she could muster. That was the best way to tell a lie–with conviction.
The receptionist gave her a cool look and said, “The studio is at the end of the hall on the left. Mr. Fitzgerald is waiting for you there.”
Jake nodded her head. “Thank you.” Jake headed in the direction the receptionist pointed, her bulky portfolio banging against her legs as she rounded the circular hallway. She checked her slip of paper again. Eamon Fitzgerald. The Fitzgerald was fine, but how did you pronounce that first name? She looked it up on an internet site for what to name your baby. She forgot what the old Gaelic name supposedly meant, and worse, it provided no clue as to how to pronounce it. She’d have to listen carefully when he introduced himself.
She stopped outside the studio, taking one last calming breath before opening the door. She could hear men laughing on the other side, probably at some disgustingly chauvinistic joke. That was the sort of thing you could expect from men who’d work at a magazine called Ebony Man. What was she doing here herself? If she ran now, no one but the receptionist would even know what she looked like.
“Get a grip on yourself,” her inner voice warned. You’re a McKenna, and before that a Troubat, and neither clan is known to be cowards.
Obeying the command of the little voice, she straightened to her full five-foot-nine inches and gave a quick rap on the gray metal door before opening it. Immediately a man rushed toward her. His swarthy complexion and dark hair bespoke a Mediterranean heritage. “There you are, darling,” the man said, grabbing her arm and pulling her into the room. He wore a yellow Hawaiian shirt, jeans and black high-topped sneakers with a big gold medallion on a thick chain around his neck. “We were starting to worry about you.”
He took her portfolio from her and handed it to another man, an Asian wearing a T-shirt that said, “I’m with Stupid,” with an arrow pointing poignantly downward.
“Nigel,” the first man called, helping her out of her jacket as she struggled to retain it. “Nigel,” he repeated more urgently. “Come look at what we’ve got. Look at those legs. We’ve got to get them in the picture.”
Nigel appeared from amid the klieg lights surrounding the “set” to the left. He was tall and dark-skinned, wearing a camera around his neck from a large multi-colored strap. His only greeting was a terse, “H’lo.”
All this happened in what seemed like a second to Jake. She stood open-mouthed, feeling vaguely as if she’d been assailed by the three kings. But instead of giving gifts, they were taking things away!
“I’m –” she began, trying to explain she obviously wasn’t who they thought she was.
“We’ve got no time for excuses,” the man with the medallion continued. He looked her up and down. “And honey, that dress has got to go.”
She looked down at the offending conservatively cut garment. Oh, God! oh God! oh God! The chant started in her head. It was one of those magazines, and they thought she was a model!
The man with the medallion kept on babbling about her dress. Nigel was muttering unintelligibly, and the third man merely shook his head. All the while, she could feel herself being drawn further into the room by their hands on her arms.
“Stop it. Stop it all of you.” She stood firm, shrugging away the hands of three startled men. “I’m looking for Mr. Fitzgerald. Is he here or not?”
“I’m here.”
The sound of the deep baritone voice jolted her. She hadn’t noticed there was a fourth man in the room remaining totally silent while all this madness went on.
She turned to him, her gaze immediately riveting on his eyes–ice blue or maybe gray–that stared back at her from a handsome, bronze face. She could almost feel his eyes travel over her as they scanned her body, one she’d always thought was too voluptuous for its own good. They settled again on her face, seeming to look more through her than at her. “Can I help you?”
“Yes,” she said, trying to shake the eerie feeling he was staring right into her soul. “I’m Jake McKenna. I have a nine-thirty appointment with you.”
If he was aware of her fib, his expression didn’t show it– if you could describe a totally unmoving face as bearing an expression. Even when he’d spoken, she’d had the uncanny feeling that his features hadn’t changed. She’d gotten his message by telepathy.
He rose from the tall stool he’d been more leaning against than sitting on, striding toward her with easy, graceful steps. The three kings, as she’d come to think of them, fell away, clearing a path for him.
“I’m sorry, Ms. McKenna,’ he said extending a hand to her, which she shook. “I hope you’ll forgive me, but I was expecting a man. I haven’t met very many women named Jake.”
“It happens all the time.” But it shouldn’t have this time. She distinctly heard the receptionist say, “Ms. McKenna is here to see you.”
“And I hope my staff didn’t upset you too much,” he continued. “They can be a bit overzealous.” He gave an almost imperceptible nod, and suddenly her belongings reappeared. He handed her her purse and jacket and held on to her portfolio.
“They’ve been waiting for an author we’re doing an article on who was supposed to be here at eight-thirty. Unfortunately, none of us is really sure what she looks like, except she has red hair. It was an honest mistake.”
She didn’t say anything as his voice trailed off. She might have blurted out that she thought they were about to disrobe her for some pictures she was glad her mother wasn’t alive to see.
He introduced her to her three assailants, Nick, Nigel and Ng, usually called Kevin, then suggested they go somewhere to talk about the job.
He led her down the corridor, back past the receptionist’s desk to a corner office overlooking Manhattan. This couldn’t be his office she mused, looking around. Too much clutter, for one thing. Such an impeccably dressed man with neatly manicured hands would never tolerate such a mess. There were stacks of paper everywhere. The drafting table in the corner looked to be literally on its last legs, there were boxes of all sizes stacked along one wall.
The only item in the entire office that looked like it belonged to him was a dust-covered plaque that read, “I’m the man your mother always warned you about.” She had, and he probably was.
“Sit down, Ms. McKenna,” he instructed, unbuttoning his suit jacket. He took it off and slung it across the brown leather chair behind the desk.
She sat, watching as he walked toward the window to close the blinds. >From the rear she saw broad shoulders that tapered to lean hips and a firm derriere. When he turned around, she glimpsed a muscular chest, outlined against the thin material of his long-sleeved white shirt, and well, the rest she would just have to speculate about. She returned her gaze to his face as he sat down.
“First thing,” he said, without preamble. “I’ve been know to make appointments at nine an at nine-thirty, and I’m generally aware of which of the two I’ve said.”
Jake gulped, feeling like she’d shown up at the prom without her clothes on. He’d known who she was all along. She didn’t know how she knew, but she knew.
Then why had he subjected her to the antics in the studio? He could easily have put a stop to it if he’d wanted to. Was it all a joke? There wasn’t the slightest trace of humor on his face. Or was it a punishment for daring to keep the great Eamon Fitzgerald waiting?
Either way, she was out of her league with this man, whose cool, steady eyes seemed to bore into her. Maybe she should thank him for his time and leave.
“Second, you come highly recommended by the agency, and you have an impressive list of clients, but you don’t have any office experience.”
He picked up her portfolio and unzipped it laying it across the desk. He flipped through the laminated pages quickly, hardly enough time to appreciate her work. This was his polite way of letting her know he wasn’t going to hire her.
Strangely, she felt more relieved than anything else. Graphic design was a competitive field, but she was sure she could easily get a job somewhere else. After all, this was her first interview, and she swore to herself she would be on time to all the others.
“Tell me about yourself, Ms. McKenna. Aside from your design work, you’ve had a number of interesting . . . jobs.”
From beneath the portfolio he extracted a copy of her resume. That was a laugh, calling it a resume. It was more like a list of odd jobs with the emphasis on odd. In her twenty-eight years, she’d tried everything from teaching art in a private girls’ school to delivering singing telegrams, with quite a few strange things in between. Whatever it took to keep her head above water. Whenever funds got low, she’d trot out her portfolio and knock on a few publisher’s or ad agency’s doors. It was by far her most lucrative talent.
“For instance, what were you doing at this company Home Work, up until seven months ago?”
“Painting.”
“Oh? Oil or watercolor?”
“Houses. My brother and I owned a small construction company. Mostly we did a lot of remodeling of co-ops and condos and the like. Once he’d finish plastering or whatever, I’d paint.”
“Why are you looking for full-time work now?”
“My brother left the company unexpectedly, and I have a small child to raise.”
“I see.”
He didn’t, but she saw no reason to explain that a car accident ended both her brother’s life and the company, or that Dani was his daughter, not hers. It was none of his business, anyway. He closed her portfolio and set it on the floor without zipping it. “I don’t know how much the agency has told you about our magazine, but it’s been privately run by my family since it started publication over thirty years ago. Over time, it’s changed a lot, and I feel there is a need now for it to be revamped again. That’s where you come in.”
Me? she almost asked aloud. Did this mean he was hiring her, after only a cursory glance at her portfolio? She’d expected to have to wait at least a couple of weeks to hear anything, if ever, considering the unprofessional way she’d behaved. Liza’d told her she was the first candidate to be sent over for the job. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to work.
“My uncle, who was the publisher for many years, treated the magazine as his own personal sounding board. Unfortunately, not many people share my uncle’s view of what is good, or even interesting. Consequently, circulation is at its lowest point ever. Now that I’ve taken over, I want to see that changed.”
He took a copy of the magazine from atop one of the piles on the desk and tossed it to her. “This is a prime example of what I do not want. If you look through this issue, you’ll find that not only is the editorial sloppy, the design is cluttered, the subject matter is downright boring. I’m looking to appeal to a younger more sophisticated audience of men and women than my uncle was, if you can describe this as being directed toward anyone at all.”
Jake picked up the magazine, flipping through the pages, pretending to scan it. She felt sorry for this uncle, whoever he was. She could imagine how he’d taken over, throwing the poor old man out when he didn’t prove useful enough.
“I’m looking for something fresh, incisive, non-formulaic, as far as the design is concerned. Of course, you’ll be working all this out with the art director. My brother will be back in New York next Monday.”
He leaned back in his chair. “I’d like you to start this Monday, get acquainted with the magazine and the rest of the staff before he gets here.”
“Shouldn’t I meet him first?” This was all happening too fast. She wasn’t sure she wanted to work at Ebony Man in the first place. Not if it meant working with the strange, abrupt man seated across from her. And his brother? She certainly didn’t think she could stand two of them. Well, he wasn’t asking her if she wanted the job, he was telling her she had it. Now, what was she going to do about it?
“He’ll abide by any decision I make.”
But would he like it, was a different question. The last thing she needed was to be the focal point of a feud between two brothers, both of whom would be her boss in one way or another.
She was about to refuse his offer, reminding herself that this was only her first interview. Then he told her how much he intended to pay her. It was even higher than the figure she would have asked for. She’d figured she would have to bargain down from that.
She toyed with the ring on the third finger of her left hand, her lucky ring, wondering if he weren’t merely strange or plain ol’ crazy. Nobody offered that kind of money for a designer, not in publishing, anyway.
“By the way,” he added, “We have a day care facility in the building. It’s only getting started so it’s a little shaky, but I haven’t heard any complaints so far. As long as you can drop your child off, the service is free to employees.”
She had wondered what to do with Dani between the time the school dismissed and her own workday ended at five o’clock.
Finding competent, affordable day care in New York was like finding a pearl in a plate of oysters on the half shell–damn near impossible. It did make the offer more tempting. So tempting that she knew she couldn’t turn it down. She had to think of Dani, and practical things like paying the rent on time and having food on the table every night. The carefree days were over.
“Monday sounds fine,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips.
She thought she saw a flicker of a smile cross his face, but it came and went so quickly she couldn’t be sure. “Any questions?”
Plenty. Like how did I get myself into this mess? “Not really.”
“Good,” he said rising, shaking her hand. “I’ll see you on Monday. Nine o’clock this time.” She moved to pick up her portfolio. “You can leave that here,” he added, shrugging on his jacket. “I’ll send it to your apartment by messenger, along with some other things I’d like you to look at. You will be home this afternoon.”
That sounded to her more like a command than a question. “Yes.”
He adjusted his collar. “I’ve got to run. I’m late for another meeting.” The implication being that it was her fault. He walked around the desk heading for the door. He paused long enough to tell her, “Just follow the hallway. It leads straight to the elevators.” Then he disappeared down the hallway himself.
“Weird, definitely weird,” Jake said aloud as she put her jacket on and picked up her purse. Well, at least both her immediate problems were solved. She had a job and she had somewhere to leave Dani. And if working for the Fitzgerald brothers proved to be too much, she could always look for another job. After all, the best time to look for a job was when you had one, or so popular wisdom had it.
But what did she really know about either brother? She still didn’t know how to pronounce this one’s first name. Even the three kings called him Mr. Fitzgerald.
He was, however, one of the sexiest men she’d ever met. He showed absolutely no interest in her in that regard, though. She’d been sitting there the whole time with her long legs exposed by her short dress. He hadn’t looked at them once.
Once outside, she decided to take a cab back home. After what she’d been through that morning, the thought of getting on a crowded, stuffy subway wasn’t a pleasant one. She hurried to the curb, seeing an empty taxi headed her way. She stepped into the street, holding up her arm to catch his attention. She hadn’t noticed the bicycle messenger that was headed straight for her.
“Oh, dear,” she said, realizing there wasn’t time to get out of the way.
Then she felt a hand on her arm and she was airborne, flying back up onto the sidewalk right into the hard wall of Eamon Fitzgerald’s chest.
‘Thank you,” she said, looking up at him. Her hand went to her chest. “I almost ended up a pancake.”
He stared down at her with the same unreadable expression and said, “Do try not to get yourself killed before Monday, Ms. McKenna.” And then he was gone.
