Jenna Takes the Fall Page 5

“Ah, you’ve given me the easy answer.”

  Refusing to cower before the man, she moved away. “Jorge suggested I do an art inventory for you because it might be helpful.”

  “Good idea. Maybe you’ll learn something, specifically how to appreciate this painting. I recall some art history on your resume, and of course there’ll be very few lunches to arrange this summer. We don’t want you malingering in the city, do we? You could go visit our various houses—the perfect summer getaway.” Startled at how easy this had been, she couldn’t think what to say. “Talk to Sabine about beginning with the Wyoming paintings, and we’ll see how you do.”

  “Should I just arrange this with her now? Won’t it look odd, I mean at a party and all?” Hull stared down at her, uncomprehending. “Minutes ago you pretended not to see me. Maybe she’ll do the same?”

  “What are you talking about? You’re much too sensitive, you know. Get going, you silly girl, get to it.” He appraised her critically. “Afraid of her, are you?”

  “No, not at all, but. . . .” She couldn’t possibly tell him what she had witnessed at the hotel.

  “I don’t have time for this. Follow me.”

  Jenna trailed behind his formidable back, as he returned her to the room where the party rattled along noisily. They found Sabine Hull in conversation with Tasha, close to a massive window that looked out toward Central Park, and her boss guided her to them swiftly, now pulling Jenna by the hand. She looked around in torment, certain the guests were watching this scene in amazement, but all she could do was cling to Hull and focus on her mission. At first, Mrs. Hull did not look up, but when Vincent announced her, Tasha leaned forward and kissed Jenna on the cheek.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt. . . .” she started clumsily.

  “The new mistress of the letters,” Tasha said, effusive and charming and only briefly noticing when Hull walked away.

  Turning to the Frenchwoman, who stared down at the floor, Jenna leaned forward and spoke as quietly as she could amid the noisy drinkers and partiers. “I’m supposed to do an inventory of your artwork, Mrs. Hull, and I wanted to ask—that is, Mr. Hull asked me to ask you—if I could take photos of all the pictures in Wyoming, as well as in the other residences. Plus get all the original paperwork. I would need that too.”

  The chic, slight woman finally lifted her eyes, staring at her with a strange look on her face, as if she had just come out of anesthesia and suddenly felt every knife that had cut through her flesh. Jenna stepped back, certain that Mrs. Hull remembered the circumstances of their previous meeting. Nevertheless she looked Jenna in the eye and spoke calmly, as if reflecting, with only the trace of an accent. “We have all the bills of sale somewhere, but not too many photographs. You will have to start from the beginning with those, I fear.” She stared off over Jenna’s shoulder, toward Tasha.

  “It’s no trouble, my job really.” Jenna tripped away as fast as she could, and the two women once again bent toward each other. She immediately headed toward Inti. “Oh great, oh wonderful,” she prattled into her wine glass, in front of the astonished young man. “I achieved my mission.”

  “What mission is that?”

  “To get out of here.”

  “Yes, let’s blow this joint.”

  “No, I mean out of town.”

  “That too.” Without a word to anyone, he escorted her through the hall and down the incredible staircase. Once outside, buffeted by a hot wind steaming up through the subway grates, the two of them shared a final, narcotizing cognac at a café on Madison Avenue. There she explained more fully her get-out-of-town mission, so much more exciting than sitting in an office. Inti felt somewhat unsettled about this roaming inventorying, but didn’t want to suggest dark motives on Hull’s part. After all, he wasn’t sure. “You can come and see me in Rye. It’s beautiful up there, basically a suburb of Manhattan but like another world.”

  “I’d love to do that, someday.” She felt shy, though, because their intimacy certainly hadn’t yet stretched that far.

  Inti sipped his drink and looked intently at her. “Be careful. You’ll become his slave. From what I hear, he’s got a lot of those.”

  “Oh come on, he’s cute, in an old sort of way.”

  “Like a vampire.”

  She grimaced. “Not to worry, I can hold my own.” She realized the liquor had encouraged her inner temptress, for this man and another, perhaps not for the good.

  FIVE

  To her great disappointment, Jenna’s journey to catalogue art in Wyoming was thwarted, since both Hulls had once again decamped to France. “Maybe I should remind him, not the wife? He seems more approachable.”

  Jorge regarded her sharply, looking skeptical. “Jenna, stop it. You’re acting nuts, and stop complaining about the heat and the smell.”

  “Easy for you to be so snooty. You go to the Jersey shore every weekend.” Jorge had regaled her many times with his adventures in Cape May, with a brother he had to force out of the house and a mother who needed help walking down the stairs.

  “Okay, here’s how you do it. You email him regarding the extreme importance to the project of having photos. He probably thinks of this as a make-work deal I dreamed up for you, but, you know, later, when he—um, um—” Here Jorge gagged and then drew his finger across his throat in a slashing manner—“or in case he ever, you know, dies, not that he ever will, of course. . . .”

  “No, no, obviously not.”

  “I would take care not even to get near a subject like that.”

  “I never would. He’s young.”

  Jorge began to laugh. “Tell that to his wife.” But this was a remark Jenna chose not to pursue. “In any case, someday the heirs will need this information, and he knows that.”

  She prepared a very careful email that outlined her plans but heard nothing for a few days, until at last a blessed, wonderful reply. “I’m coming into town day after tomorrow, just briefly, but then will be flying out to Wyoming for the weekend to check on some architectural studies for an addition to the house. Why don’t you come along?” At last she could indulge her long-held fantasy of sitting by a wooded stream fishing for trout or whatever else swam around there, and so she sat at her desk picturing water cascading over her waders as she cast her glowing little fly expertly. Of course, she knew nothing about fly fishing, only hoped it would be that way. She didn’t honestly picture a male person at her side—her mind had not yet flown in that direction—and yet anyone, especially Jorge, could see she was susceptible.

  He watched her when she told him of this so-called plan and felt it wise to warn her. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” Jorge was used to these time fucks, and he had given up trying to make an exact schedule in anticipation thereof. Time fucks went a certain way, as he explained now to Jenna. Hull called, set an arrival time, called back an hour later with an update, then failed to call at the putative arrival time. He preferred to show up when least expected. People waited, babies were born, news was made, and still they waited. Chunks of a glacier calved in the great North, and Jorge just sighed every time the cycle reasserted itself. He couldn’t really understand why Hull attempted to control time, especially everyone else’s, but he thought he should write a book about it in his old age, to which end these time fucks pushed him ever closer.

  When Jenna showed up at work the next morning, anxious to see what news of the great one, she barely got a chance to shove her purse into her desk drawer. “Lunch, lunch,” Jorge yelled at her and motioned toward the kitchen.

  “Yes, lunch, lunch what?”

  “People are coming in for lunch!”

  “No one at all has eaten lunch this summer, Jorge, since I got my so-called assignment to manage Martin. He just feeds us.”

  He kept shaking his head and handed her a printed out email from Hull. “Read me some names. I’m afraid to look.”

  She rattled off a few, and Jorge crossed his arms in front of him and then jabbed up at his forehead with his pen. “Jesus
, Mary, and Joseph, fifteen people. And Howard Stern? Holy fuck. Some of these guys are important . . . wait, is this the Secretary of the Interior? Give me a break!”

  “Calm down. What’s the big deal? We just give Martin the list, and he’ll take care of it.”

  Pointing an accusatory finger toward the kitchen, Jorge sputtered, “The son of a bitch quit. Supposedly Hull told him he could be the chef at his new restaurant. Did I tell you about this? Anyway, he’s really the sous chef or the sub chef or some such thing. Jesus, what are we going to do? Howard Stern?”

  “I’ve heard of him, though not sure. . . .”

  “The so-called shock-jock, the radio guy, insults people. Why would Hull even invite him?”

  “Don’t panic. Let’s just do takeout.”

  “Are you insane? These people have memorized every single takeout menu in the city. Anyway, Hull insists our food be the best in the land, totally original. People kill for these invites. Why go to Le Bernardin when you can eat something fantastic here?”

  Jorge and Jenna finally determined that an attempt should be made to get Martin to come back, at least to prepare one final lunch. First Jorge called him, but the conversation was short. “He hung up on me. You call. He likes you. You’re the only person who cleans her plate.”

  “Are you saying I’m fat?”

  “No, absolutely not. But you actually seem to enjoy food, instead of being on some weird diet. The last girl here ate only nuts and twigs.”

  Jenna sucked in her stomach while trying to figure out what to say as she dialed Martin’s number. Chilly, nearly silent during her heartfelt pleading, he finally said, “I can’t help you. I’ve had it—years of great food, and then he goes behind my back. He’s not a well man.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing, forget it.”

  “Hull will probably fire me if you’re not here.”

  “I’m trying to care about that, but I can’t even get my head around it. Besides, he likes you, thinks you’re just great.”

  “Right, sure he does.”

  “He does. And believe me, ‘like’ is a major term of endearment for that guy.”

  “Please, Martin, please, I’m begging.”

  “I am as stone.” Their former chef hung up.

  “Do you know how to cook, Jorge?”

  “I could do my mother’s enchiladas Suizas, that’s it. We usually have it with guacamole and some stray pieces of cucumber. He’ll know old Martin didn’t come up with this.”

  “He’ll know he’s not here, Jorge. He almost always drops into the kitchen and talks with him before the lunches.”

  “That depends on what time he arrives, and we don’t know that yet, do we? I told you, he may not even show up at all.”

  “Do you ever call him to see what time he’s coming in?”

  “Never.”

  “I’ve got an idea. I could make my grandmother’s lamb stew and boxty.”

  “This is nuts. We’ll have to order something from a restaurant, somewhere he’s never been, though for fifteen people and in now, just two and a half hours . . . Jesus.”

  “‘Boxty on the griddle, boxty on the pan; if you can’t make boxty, you’ll never get a man,’ an old Irish rhyme.” Jorge stared at her in horror. “No, the stew is really good, especially if you pour in a lot of stout. Makes it full and rich. And the boxties are like crispy potato pancakes, they’re delicious. Let’s make a list for the Food Emporium down the corner.”

  Jenna was fired up. From the short time she had worked at NewsLink, she had divined Hull’s private code, both from the letters he wrote and the phone calls he made. He always praised the professionally skilled, seasoned practitioner of any art. Carpentry, plumbing, window washing, writing, it made no difference what the craft, or the person’s rank in society and, in fact, he seemed to worship his daughter’s meticulous and dedicated violin teacher. Poor performance, sloppiness, gross mistakes, he had no time for them professionally, and he had bragged to her about firing several members of the staff for such ineptitude. This mini-crisis made her want to show Vincent Hull that she could not only survive but actually triumph, if only through her grandmother’s Christmas dinner. Not that he would know who really did it, but would he?

  Three full boxes of groceries arrived within the half hour. Jorge took over all office chores, while shouting encouragement to Jenna as she cooked, chopping onions, brushing mushrooms, slicing the lamb. She needed leftover mashed potatoes for the dish but had instead gotten garlic instant mashed ones. Only occasionally did she take a swig of stout to keep up her spirits. The stew filled up two platters, and the boxties rose like crispy skyscrapers. The dessert came from the store, an ice cream cake covered with lemon frosting and dotted with yellow rosettes.

  When he eyeballed the mountain of food, Jorge narrowed his eyes and said in a low voice, “I think we’re saved.” According to Angelo, who had just called, Hull was indeed coming in for the lunch. Maybe he wouldn’t ask any questions, as accustomed as he was to the seamless web of his own importance. Jorge stood beside the steaming saucepans, tasting everything. He pronounced it “fantastic, better than Martin’s. Maybe you can be the new chef.”

  “Don’t get nuts.” But Jenna felt accomplished for the first time since she had arrived in New York City.

  Just as Jenna said this, they heard the heavy footsteps of Vincent Hull and the de rigueur chorus of greetings from staffers. It was nearly twelve thirty, and the big man barely looked at either one of them, striding toward his office. “Hello, guys,” he muttered.

  “Hello there,” Jenna said brightly. Hull slammed the office door behind him, while she and Jorge made anguished faces at each other.

  They had a half hour until the lunch, and now Jorge compulsively hovered over the warming of the food. “I don’t know. The meal’s always cold when we serve at Thanksgiving, I mean, it’s impossible to keep everything hot together. Martin’s some kind of genius. I take back everything I said about him.”

  “I do too,” Jenna said, sipping what had to be her fourth cup of coffee in less than an hour, attempting to counteract the heavy brown Guinness. Her head jangled like a tin pot, and she felt as if she would jump up and scream.

  A tall man with a thick head of black hair arrived, “the dreaded Howard Stern,” Jorge whispered. The man barely looked at them, as Jorge indicated which door he should walk through. Several frightened junior writers appeared, right behind the Secretary of the Interior, an intense, gray little man. While Jenna stood at the door with the plate of lamb stew, Hull entered the dining room and seated himself at the head of the table, shaking his head at her as if mystified, and when Jorge appeared with plates of piled high boxties, the big man frowned. He said nothing, however, after a cough and a signal for some wine.

  Jorge and Jenna lost track of time, and they even had fun in a madcap, end-of-the-world sort of way. Later Hull appeared at the kitchen door, leaning into the door jamb on his elbow. He grinned at them, looking strangely gleeful. “Well, well, hidden talents from you two.”

  “Thank you,” Jorge said, at a loss really. “Jenna did it. I just helped.”

  “They were my grandmother’s recipes. We had that meal every year at Christmas, but this is the first time I actually made it myself.”

  Vince laughed. “I’m guessing Martin didn’t show.”

  “That would be a yes,” Jenna said. “Actually, he quit.”

  “Don’t do any more cleanup. I’ve called the Regency, and they’re sending over a crew. You guys relax.”

  For the rest of the day, Hull worked in his office, asking Jenna to take no calls. She worried over this, quivered almost as she kept checking the panel of ever-blinking lights. He was even placing calls himself, unheard of since she had worked for him. Where oh where was the Wyoming plan in all this? Had it evaporated?

  Around six, Jorge came over to her desk and swiveled her chair so she faced him. “We took one for the team today, McCann. You’re a
pro, I’ve got to say that.”

  “Thank you, Jorge. It’s good to know I can do something.” She stood up and kissed him on the cheek, while he laughed nervously.

  They didn’t notice Hull watching them until he cleared his throat. “If Martin were here, which obviously he is not, I’d shoot the son of a bitch.”

  Buoyed by her triumph, Jenna giggled. “Oh, you can’t do that. Think of the lawsuits.” She had visions, yes she did right at this moment, of all the great things she could do—scale a mountain, wave to a crowd of people wishing her well, the world saluting her goodness and expertise. She could rescue everybody, and each person would be grateful.

  Jorge put on his coat. “I need to go home and walk the dog.”

  Now Jenna found herself alone with Vincent Hull, who showed no signs of leaving. “It’s been a long day for all of us.”

  “Yes,” she answered, conscious that she looked sweaty, a bit like somebody’s maid, as she was, pretty much.

  “I loved those potato pancake things.”

  “Boxties. With those you could take over the world.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  “I guess they won’t have any of those in Wyoming.”

  He looked down at her now, in kingly fashion, “Not at my restaurant there.” Just for a moment Jenna thought he stared at her breasts.

  “You have another restaurant?”

  “More of a diner. I’m going out to Water Mill this weekend, but maybe next Thursday or Friday, I’ll show you the wonders of Jackson Hole.”

  SIX

  Another four days went by with no Vincent Hull and no weekend trip to Wyoming. The pavements of New York stank, the corners filled up with trash, and the subway blasted hot air through the even hotter air above. It seemed like a concrete oven. On this particular Thursday, two bags of letters sat directly in front of Jenna’s desk. “Nothing really changes in the summer here, does it?” Now of course, she was freezing, as the air conditioning blasted away.

  Jorge sighed and looked down into his coffee cup. “Not really.”