Jenna Takes the Fall Read online

  On the fifth day of the painful wait for her boss, all in vain, the fashionable Tasha appeared in a long red skirt with a black tank top, showing off her shapely arms and remarkable breasts. Jenna had never known anyone who looked as dashing as this woman. “I’m taking her for an iced tea, Jorge. I mean, how much more of this can she take?”

  Jorge seemed surprised, but then went quickly back to his work. “Don’t talk about me, that’s all I ask.”

  “Never.” Tasha waved Jenna up out of her chair and walked arm in arm with her down the hall, toward the coffee cart, where she did a sudden about face, “Let’s go to the deli outside. I’ve got to get out of here.”

  At a table under the atrium in the noisy center of the little café, where a fountain spewed water to cool them, the two sipped big glasses of iced green tea, trying to talk above the din. Jenna couldn’t stop looking at Tasha’s velvety chocolate-colored skin and her long, ruby red fingernails. The elegant woman didn’t talk much, seemingly absorbed in some inner drama, but finally she laughed abruptly at nothing at all, then stood up and sat down again, a very strange move in this location, magically in possession of an uninhibited self that Jenna had not seen before. New Yorkers just commanded space because they had to, with so many others vying for it. “Hull’s one of a kind. You’ll be surprised.” Jenna let this pass. “So how have things gone with him?”

  “Great. As of now, I’m promoted, sort of. I’m running the executive dining room.”

  Tasha smiled and chewed on a madeleine, offering one to Jenna as well. “He and Martin fight a lot. We’ll see if Martin comes crawling back.”

  “Mr. Hull is attractive in some way I can’t quite figure out. From one side he has this fantastic profile—I mean, for an older guy. Full frontal he’s almost ugly. . . .” Jenna paused when she saw the shocked look on Tasha’s face. She added quickly, “Not that that has anything to do with my job.”

  “He’s not smart enough to avoid the big tragedies, and he savors the small ones.”

  “The small tragedies? I wonder if I know what those are?” But talk of their mutual boss, at this level, seemed like a seriously bad idea, so she turned back to her own humble piece of the world. “Have you eaten in the executive dining room much?”

  “Three or four times, maybe, always with a group.”

  Of course Tasha would have attended many events that others might not. She was a person of fashion, of grace, and Jenna felt instant admiration for her, and by way of contrast, dissatisfaction with herself. Like many unformed, embryonic young women in their twenties, Jenna knew that she must “do” something, “be” something, but nothing came quickly to mind. She was only ever escaping something, that being her dreary, painful youth in the hinterland.

  After her father’s early death from some infection her mother could never quite name, Eileen McCann had remarried not once, but twice, the second time to an angry, jealous man, a lawyer in Youngstown, Ohio. Perpetually in a rage, annoyed at Jenna for being “sassy” and a “smarty-pants,” he regularly got drunk on weekends and beat her mother up. After one drunken rampage in which he tried to throw her out the window, Jenna actually called the police on him. This triggered a series of moves by neighbors and officials, until her grandmother stepped in and took her out of that house forever. She got legal custody and moved the two of them to Burton, a peaceful, unnaturally quiet landscape in the northeast Ohio hills, farm country, but Jenna’s dream had always involved the big city, nothing even remotely close to Burton, where winter lasted nine months at least. A gray, lowering sky, that was what passed for “fine,” as the weatherman on television would put it, because at least it wasn’t life threatening. Her college years in Athens, Ohio, remained the happiest memory of her young life.

  Tasha seemed content with the silence, until, as they sipped their tea, she asked her about boyfriends. “Any of those floating around?”

  “I did just meet someone, a journalist. He’s very cute. Not important or anything. He’s been writing about zoning somewhere upstate, Rye I think.”

  “That’s a posh suburb . . . really.”

  “It is?”

  “Just be sure not to tell him anything.”

  “I don’t know anything.” Jenna giggled but stopped short. She didn’t want to appear a complete rube. “What about you and boyfriends?”

  “No one at the moment. I don’t have time, and I don’t want ties of a certain kind. It’s too much trouble.”

  And wouldn’t she just feel that way, Jenna thought. A woman as beautiful as this wouldn’t really need male attention, the way she knew she did. Jenna felt nearly desperate, inside herself, that is. She tried too hard in social situations. She laughed and smiled too much. She wanted to please, whereas this gleaming personage before her wanted to be on the “pleased” end of the spectrum.

  “Mr. Hull promised to take me to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, one of these weekends. I’m supposed to inventory his paintings there, but I’m not sure when. I can’t wait to get out of town.”

  Tasha stood up now, abruptly. “Gotta go.”

  Jenna feared she might be angry, but to her surprise, they walked down the street once again arm in arm. Such a companionable thing, an Ohio thing almost, and she felt grateful for her stunning, sophisticated friend, way cooler than her dreary roommates, who were the opposite of companionable. Right then and there she pondered friendships in New York and resolved to have more of them, more of any and all that came her way. “How long have you been at NewsLink, and why? It seems like all white people to me.”

  Tasha didn’t appear offended, but instead rather proud. “I’ve been in publicity forever, since I first got there and started out as an intern. They’ve been great to me; I don’t know . . . affirmative action at work, but why should I care?” She fingered a green-and-red coral necklace that hung down low over her neckline. “There are perks and stuff,” she added, smiling mysteriously. “And I’m good at my job.” She seemed a happy woman, but then Tasha turned thoughtful. “You don’t want to cut yourself off from other men. That could be a problem with a job like yours. You’ll meet famous people, important people, and that may come to color your view. You know, no one ordinary will be good enough.”

  “You mean I’ll go ‘New York’? I don’t think so.” Jenna truly couldn’t picture one of the captains of industry copping a feel off her under any circumstances, constrained by lawsuits or just deterred by her hopeless appearance.

  “Seriously, opportunities come up, if you know what I mean, and you should be careful. There are big dogs barking everywhere.”

  “Not at me, but they must bark at you all the time.”

  Tasha hiked her purse up around her shoulders. “I’m saving myself.”

  “For what?” Jenna wanted to ask, but she was cut short by the harsh squeal of a cab slamming on its brakes in front of them.

  Back at her desk, digging once more into her letter pile, she pondered how Tasha made her way in this very expensive world. While publicity must pay a lot more than her own pitiful salary, Jenna knew from Jorge’s remarks that nobody except the major editors made much money at the magazine. Either she had resources of her own or came from a prosperous family, or maybe there was a sugar daddy, because at her salary level, she would have to be the best shopper on earth to get those clothes.

  SEVEN

  After another week of not seeing or hearing anything from Vincent Hull, and after going home early on Friday because there was nothing at all to do at work, Jenna got a frantic call from Jorge. “Pack your duds, Missy, you’re on your way out to Teterboro. Hull came in from Water Mill and asked me to give you a call. Angelo will pick you up in twenty minutes.”

  “Yay!” Jenna sang out happily to the four walls of the apartment as she flung various outfits into her suitcase while her roommates looked on in bemusement. They considered her a naïve girl who probably had no idea what to expect, what to wear, even what to say to whomever she might encounter on this little junket.

 
; “Be sure to take pictures of everything. I’ll bet the house is fabulous.” Vera picked lazily through the clothes Jenna was putting in her suitcase. “What about the wifey? Will she be there with the kids?”

  “No idea, no idea about any of this. But I’m on my way to Big Sky country.”

  “That’s Montana, actually.” Allyson peered through the doorway while she stubbed out another cigarette in her Coors Lite. “Are we going anywhere this weekend, Vera?”

  “Fire Island is a very real possibility. I know a whole bunch of people who have rented a house.”

  “Wherever I’m headed, it’s going to be great,” Jenna crowed in delight, knowing her roommates would have sliced her up with a knife and fork to get such an opportunity. Her own father had dreamt of such adventures but had never had the money, nor, it turned out, the time. He died at age thirty-eight. Now she was living the best part of his life for him.

  Angelo arrived promptly, and as she sank down into the limo’s fragrant black leather backseat, she struggled to contain herself. Finally she leaned forward, “This is so exciting. I’ve hardly been anywhere.”

  “It’s beautiful, I can tell you that. I’ve been there a few times, took the wife and kids.”

  “Oh, my gosh, how was the house?”

  “Fantastic, but we stayed in one of the guest cottages along the river. It was incredible. The kids wanted Mr. Hull to adopt them.”

  Jenna shivered with anticipation. She was journeying to a place she had dreamt of, this time in a private jet, ooh, but would it be small? Vera had said that when she rode on one, she couldn’t even stand up in it. Jenna was an infrequent flyer, both by choice and by pocketbook, and also because she could all too easily picture herself smashed head first into the ground. As she wondered and worried about the plane’s size, the limo wheeled up behind a two-engine plane, a jet anyway, though not as big as a commercial plane. It had the characteristic Hull logo on the tail, a red block letter H with a black arrow slashed through it.

  While Angelo helped her with her bag, she managed to inspect several sides of the plane for dents or something unattached. Always helpful, that’s how she thought of herself. She climbed up the steps and didn’t even have to bend her head to enter, but when she did, she encountered a world of soft beige, cream leather seats surrounding the wooden tables, and even the curved walls were of leather. It was wonderful, a dreamy man cave, like something she’d seen once at a cigar bar near the Plaza Hotel. Unaccountably, two unknown males were sitting in the two seats at the back of the plane, talking intently and pulling papers out of briefcases. They barely looked up when she entered, one only waving his hand in her general direction.

  Which seat to take? She looked to her right and then lurched herself into the nearest one, located as it was before a small table. She had spotted a single, lower jump seat near the back, along with a bar or some kind of galley. A comely woman in a navy blue uniform came over to introduce herself, “Carole,” and to offer Jenna a drink. “No thank you, or well, maybe a Diet Coke.” She was on the job after all, not really going off on a fun weekend, though that’s what she hoped for. But where was Vincent Hull? He planned to join them, did he not? She certainly didn’t want to ride alone in this, face it, small jet with a flight attendant and two businessmen-type guys. They might object to her wails during turbulence.

  The engines throbbed into life, and shortly thereafter the impressive figure of Vincent Hull appeared at the entry door. He wore a dark gray suede jacket and blue jeans, restrained cowboy getup, no boots, thank goodness. Granny Mac always advised that men in cowboy boots could not be trusted. Trailing him on a leash was a big golden retriever that he led into the cabin and motioned to lie down. Smiling at her briefly, he went to the back, and through various mutterings and mumblings, she could divine that the men he talked to were not, in fact, going with them, only there to go over some papers before departure. She leaned down to pat the doggie, who eyed her sleepily and then licked her hand. A moment after she buckled herself in, Hull came up and sat in the seat directly across from her on the opposite side of the plane. She smiled self-consciously, noting the hurried departure of the two men, holding jackets and briefcases as they rushed toward the door.

  “This is Duncan,” Hull said and picked up his paw to shake it. “He always goes with me out there, likes the weather, the birds, and all the places to sleep. He’s very old, almost thirteen, about eighty, I think, in people years.”

  “He’s a cutie,” she managed above the din of the engines. Now she appeared to scream, “I really like dogs!” He smiled and nodded her way, then threw his head back and fell asleep as they took off.

  Jenna was too excited to sleep, and she watched out the window as the plane climbed up over the Hudson River. The evening sky glowed pink and velvety blue. Heading west, they flew toward the setting sun as it moved almost imperceptibly down the horizon. In a few minutes, the flight attendant came by and asked what she would like for dinner, mentioning a choice of steak with fries, curried chicken and basmati rice, filet of sole with pilaf, or “any combination of these if you would like, or something else altogether.”

  She chose the chicken and, when it came, ate in silence, occasionally sneaking glances over at Vincent Hull. She wasn’t here to socialize, after all. Hull ate a sandwich and drank Scotch as he worked on through the hours writing notes on a yellow legal pad, never looking up from his papers at the magnificent, muted, gold twilight sky. At last even Jenna shut her eyes, lulled by the engines, rousing herself now and then to lean over and pat the dog, and at last she fell asleep. She didn’t know how long she slept but awoke suddenly when the plane pitched sideways, then jolted heavily downward. Jenna tried to spot the ground in the darkness, but she could only just make out jagged mountaintops and deep canyons. Several more heavy bounces and a leftward roll had her gripping her seat. A bright light over his head, Vincent Hull kept on working the whole time and didn’t even glance her way. Finally Carole came by to check her seatbelt but other than that said nothing, so Jenna figured they weren’t going to crash, at least not right at that moment.

  The plane bucked forward and then surged downward until one of the pilots emerged from the cockpit. With some difficulty, he bent down to whisper into Hull’s ear, and Jenna leaned in to hear, but she couldn’t. Finally Hull turned to her. “We’re going to try for a landing at Jackson, but a storm has kicked in, so we’re not sure.”

  “Not sure of what? Are we going to crash?” she wanted to shout but couldn’t get any words out.

  Her face must have registered extreme fright because in the next moment he tried to reassure her. “Relax, there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  What was “it,” Death? Jenna desperately needed a drink, and, as if reading her mind, he yelled, “Carole, a Scotch for Miss McCann here and another for me.”

  Wobbling from side to side like a drunk heading for the bathroom, the flight attendant made her way down the aisle and returned shortly with the Scotch, while the dog never even awoke from its slumber. Jenna took a gulp of the stinging liquid, choking on it, and then drank some more, a fire in the pit of her stomach. Subdued banging had started somewhere beneath the belly of the plane, and at this point even Duncan lifted his head. As the jet strained ever downward through the storm, it rose up seemingly just as high a moment later, and Jenna gasped, suddenly aware that she was holding her breath. Vincent Hull looked over and put his big warm hand on top of her clenched fingers. “Don’s a good pilot.” She pulled his hand closer and held onto it while they attempted to land, but it was not to be as she felt the plane climb at a steep angle, swirling its way back upwards, banging still.

  “Oh, my god!” she cried, flinging his hand away.

  Moments later the pilot stuck his head out of the cockpit, “Want to give it another try?”

  “Definitely.” Hull turned to the terrified Jenna. “He did a go-around, good move. Now he’ll try landing again.” He noted the look on Jenna’s face. “Don’t be afra
id. I’m not afraid. This happens all the time in Jackson Hole. What the hell, I’ve lived a terrific life.” He waved his half-empty glass of Scotch at her.

  “What about my life?” she wanted to yell, angry, in the middle of a nightmare, the kind in which you try to scream but you can’t, you’re just an agonized open mouth. She looked over at him with tears in her eyes. He again reached for her and clutched her hand even harder. She held onto him now with both of hers.

  The plane rocked sideways, until at last she heard landing wheels lock into place. She let go of her boss and strained to see something out of the window. There, blessedly, beneath them was the runway, and they touched down moments later, still shimmying from side to side in the wind. Jenna knew nothing of Wyoming storms and even less about Jackson Hole, its notorious history of bad landings and even scarier takeoffs, but she wanted to cry out to the heavens in gratitude.

  When they at last deplaned, she feared to look at the man, linked as they had been in some momentary intimacy. She was about to pick up her small bag, when Vincent picked it up himself and led her to a waiting black SUV. Inside the car, she still refused to look at him or at anything much of the surroundings, except occasionally at the ground in gratitude. At last, though, she roused herself to peer at an elk preserve just outside the airport. The big animals huddled together in the cool air. A huddle, that’s what she needed, but no one very cuddly occupied any space near her, except the dog, who rested at Vincent’s feet. She rubbed his head, and Duncan crawled over and stretched the length of his body across her ankles like a nice, warm doggie blanket. Hull barely looked at her; instead, he too stared out the window.

  The Hull house had the air and trappings of a log cabin, but an incredibly large one. It rose up majestically on a hill perched above an expanse of flat land, beyond which mountains loomed. As she got out of the car, she could hear the rushing water of a stream nearby but couldn’t see it. Her boss went on before her without looking back, because, no doubt like Jenna, he found himself in that odd state that exists between people who don’t know each other but have been forced unnaturally close by circumstance.