The Eggnog Chronicles by Carly Alexander Read Free Book Online

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    I swaggered down the hall in a perverse swell of excitement. I enjoyed the controversy of closed doors. It usually meant someone was in trouble or someone was leaving. Either way, it signaled that a position was opening up, leading to a mad scramble as every editor tried to use the opening to leap to a higher spot in the food chain. Closed doors had served me well in the past. Years ago as an intern, it meant a move to assistant editor and a few promotions to work on the Sunday Magazine, then Wine and Dining. Then, when Robert Feinberg moved from obits to health editor (a backwards leap, I know, but where does one go from the Death Squad?) I’d wedged one Manolo into Marty’s door and gotten a toehold on Robert’s former spot. Yup, closed doors were usually a good omen for me.
    Spotting Ed Horn over by the fish tank, I stopped in my tracks, my long coat lapping at my ankles. With his bow tie and polite demeanor, Ed Horn was a city desk writer who was rumored to have joined the Herald when the newsroom was a sea of clacking typewriters. With tenure like that you don’t worry about getting fired, and I trusted Ed since the day he saved my skin and stopped me from plotting the demise of my arch rival, Genevieve. “Don’t waste your time and energy,” he’d told me. “A bad reporter will sink himself. You don’t have to puncture the raft.” Probably good advice at the time, though the evil Genevieve was still afloat and drifting into my side of the pond.
    â€œGood morning, Piggy,” he said as he tapped fish flakes into the tank.
    In response, Piggy wriggled up to the water’s surface, her golden-skirted fins whispering around her.
    â€œGood morning, Jane,” he said just as brightly, though he didn’t turn away from the tank.
    â€œGood morning and good grief,” I said, lowering my voice. “What’s up?”
    â€œIt appears that Ms. Grodin is fed up with the feeding frenzy of being a food editor.”
    I cracked a grin. “She what? You mean she’s quitting?”
    â€œMoving out to Arizona, planning to do PR work for a spa out there. She says the air out there is so much cleaner. Makes the pounds melt away.”
    Amy Grodin was going to need a major dose of air to melt down her weight gain, but I bit my tongue before that sentiment slipped out. Ed didn’t deal well with catty, and I wasn’t good at handing it out in a tactful way. “So they’re looking for someone to review restaurants and critique the occasional recipe,” I said, visions of expense account dinners dancing in my head. I could just see that Gold American Express card sliding across the fine linens at The Gotham. Ordering up a storm at Le Cirque. Steaks at Smith & Wollensky’s. Star-gazing at Joe Allen’s. Sampling the exquisite marriage of Japanese and Peruvian cuisine at Nobu’s. “You know, I used to work in Wine and Dining. I think I want that job.”
    â€œAnd give up the Death Beat?” Perplexed, Ed adjusted a cord on the fish tank’s filter.
    It’s true, when I’d landed my current spot there’d been a frenzy of excitement, partly due to the readership of Herald obits, partly due to the personal challenge. But now that I could sum up a person’s life in three hundred words or less, ennui was setting in. I sighed. “Face it, Ed, most obit writers are journalism wannabes or dusty curmudgeons on their way to retirement.”
    â€œI beg to differ. Obit writing is a gift—a calling for natural storytellers. Like you, Jane. And at the Herald? You come from a position of power: a newspaper with world-famous obits.”
    â€œI’d rather be sampling the achievements of world-famous chefs. What’s the dirt on Amy’s gig?”
    â€œIt’s a tricky position,” Ed went on. “The food critic needs to guard his or her identity carefully. It requires vast knowledge of