needed was the most pathetic aspect of her entire situation.
She wasn’t saving the world. She wasn’t fighting for justice, defending the innocent and prosecuting the guilty. She was trying to help her boss put together an argument for why his multimillionaire client shouldn’t have to pay the woman he’d been married to for twenty years a penny more than three thousand dollars a month in alimony.
The scumbag should pay her more. His wife had put up with him for those twenty years, and after meeting him Julia was aware of what an enormous sacrifice that must have been. But he was the one paying Griffin, McDougal—paying them big, paying them more than he wanted to pay his ex-wife—and Julia’s job was to protect his assets.
Her other job was to convince her grandmother she was running Bloom’s.
The cabbie was listening to loud sitar music on his radio. The nasal whine of it made her skull vibrate. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to be tearing across town in this cab with monotonous ragas reverberating in the air. She didn’t want to save a sleazy multimillionaire cheapskate a few bucks a month in alimony, and she didn’t want to do anything that could be mentioned in the same sentence with the word herring .
She couldn’t be in two places at once. She wasn’t a magician, she wasn’t a superwoman—and Aunt Martha notwithstanding, she wasn’t even sure she was a feminist. Let Susie be president of Bloom’s. She was the one who’d concocted this scheme. She was obviously a genius, even if she did have a tattoo. Let her run the damn store. Let her do Julia’s job at Griffin, McDougal, too, if she was so damn smart.
Julia had built up a nice head of steam by the time she’d paid the cabbie an obscene amount for having transported her less than three miles. Climbing out of the cab, she straightened her spine, adjusted the shoulder strap of her briefcase, and lifted her chin, doing what she could to project height and dignity. She was going to tell them all the truth. She was going to say this deception was absurd and refuse to be a part of it anymore.
But then what would happen to her mother? And Uncle Jay? And Grandma Ida? And Bloom’s? Not only would Julia be jeopardizing the entire family legacy, but everyone—including Susie—would be royally pissed at her.
Julia supposed she could continue the pretense for a little while. She wasn’t going to wait for Grandma Ida to die—that was a really morbid aspect of the plan—but in time thingsmight settle down. Sondra would gradually take over more of the president’s job, and Grandma Ida would be so pleased by the way the store was running that she wouldn’t delve too deeply into who was actually running it. And Uncle Jay…well, maybe he could get a raise and a fancy new title. Director of outside sales and service. Chief mail order and Internet executive. Something impressive. Something that would make The Bimbette swoon, honored beyond words to be married to a powerful chief-director-hotshot like Uncle Jay.
Julia paused before entering the store. The cluttered windows always made her breath catch, but not exactly in a positive way. The overwhelming array of stuff —bottles of herbed vinegar, stacked boxes of crackers, wooden crates of tea bags, flourishes of radicchio and parsley, wedges of low-fat Jarlsburg, cylindrical tins of butter cookies and humble paper bags of biscotti, cinnamon sticks, olives from Greece, Turkey and who knew where else, braided cloves of garlic and braided loaves of bread—gave her heartburn. Maybe they ought to have a roll of antacids on display in the window, too.
She entered the store, avoiding eye contact with any of the employees—as if they’d have a clue that she was their president—and climbed the stairs to the kitchenware floor. In the early afternoon lull, the aisles weren’t too crowded, and she found herself studying the merchandise with a curiosity she’d never felt before. Why was
She wasn’t saving the world. She wasn’t fighting for justice, defending the innocent and prosecuting the guilty. She was trying to help her boss put together an argument for why his multimillionaire client shouldn’t have to pay the woman he’d been married to for twenty years a penny more than three thousand dollars a month in alimony.
The scumbag should pay her more. His wife had put up with him for those twenty years, and after meeting him Julia was aware of what an enormous sacrifice that must have been. But he was the one paying Griffin, McDougal—paying them big, paying them more than he wanted to pay his ex-wife—and Julia’s job was to protect his assets.
Her other job was to convince her grandmother she was running Bloom’s.
The cabbie was listening to loud sitar music on his radio. The nasal whine of it made her skull vibrate. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to be tearing across town in this cab with monotonous ragas reverberating in the air. She didn’t want to save a sleazy multimillionaire cheapskate a few bucks a month in alimony, and she didn’t want to do anything that could be mentioned in the same sentence with the word herring .
She couldn’t be in two places at once. She wasn’t a magician, she wasn’t a superwoman—and Aunt Martha notwithstanding, she wasn’t even sure she was a feminist. Let Susie be president of Bloom’s. She was the one who’d concocted this scheme. She was obviously a genius, even if she did have a tattoo. Let her run the damn store. Let her do Julia’s job at Griffin, McDougal, too, if she was so damn smart.
Julia had built up a nice head of steam by the time she’d paid the cabbie an obscene amount for having transported her less than three miles. Climbing out of the cab, she straightened her spine, adjusted the shoulder strap of her briefcase, and lifted her chin, doing what she could to project height and dignity. She was going to tell them all the truth. She was going to say this deception was absurd and refuse to be a part of it anymore.
But then what would happen to her mother? And Uncle Jay? And Grandma Ida? And Bloom’s? Not only would Julia be jeopardizing the entire family legacy, but everyone—including Susie—would be royally pissed at her.
Julia supposed she could continue the pretense for a little while. She wasn’t going to wait for Grandma Ida to die—that was a really morbid aspect of the plan—but in time thingsmight settle down. Sondra would gradually take over more of the president’s job, and Grandma Ida would be so pleased by the way the store was running that she wouldn’t delve too deeply into who was actually running it. And Uncle Jay…well, maybe he could get a raise and a fancy new title. Director of outside sales and service. Chief mail order and Internet executive. Something impressive. Something that would make The Bimbette swoon, honored beyond words to be married to a powerful chief-director-hotshot like Uncle Jay.
Julia paused before entering the store. The cluttered windows always made her breath catch, but not exactly in a positive way. The overwhelming array of stuff —bottles of herbed vinegar, stacked boxes of crackers, wooden crates of tea bags, flourishes of radicchio and parsley, wedges of low-fat Jarlsburg, cylindrical tins of butter cookies and humble paper bags of biscotti, cinnamon sticks, olives from Greece, Turkey and who knew where else, braided cloves of garlic and braided loaves of bread—gave her heartburn. Maybe they ought to have a roll of antacids on display in the window, too.
She entered the store, avoiding eye contact with any of the employees—as if they’d have a clue that she was their president—and climbed the stairs to the kitchenware floor. In the early afternoon lull, the aisles weren’t too crowded, and she found herself studying the merchandise with a curiosity she’d never felt before. Why was
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