The Eggnog Chronicles by Carly Alexander Read Free Book Online Page B

hand-whipped cream. . . .
    â€œJane?” Marty leaned over the wall of my cubicle. “Did Genevieve tell you? I mean, do you have a minute?”
    I plunked my Manolos off the chair and grabbed the copy. “Oh, sure,” I said, following him into his office and realizing I would have to wing it. Marty was one of the few editors with a swell, glass-walled office—the kind you see in movies; the kind of office from which the editor monitors his workers, pacing nervously and shouting into the phone. A great office, though Marty wasn’t like any of the stereotypical, adrenaline-charged editors. Low-key, quiet, and unassuming, Marty would have been ill-suited for his job if he weren’t so damned intuitive and smart. He could smell when a story was cooking and he had a strong sense of both the commercial and societal value of a piece.
    Marty asked how I was doing and thanked me for doing the interview on my sick day. As I sat across from him, fielding the pleasantries, I flicked around a loose cuticle under the arm of the chair, wondering if I should attack now for a promotion to food editor or wait to be invited.
    Once you hit thirty, you stop waiting around for invitations.
    â€œYou know, I’m glad you asked me in,” I said, “because I want to talk to you about the food critic position.”
    He squinted at me, as if it weren’t registering. “Amy’s position? Oh. Would you really want that, Jane?”
    â€œWell . . . of course,” I said, a little flabbergasted. What, did he think I wanted to be known as the Angel of Death for the rest of my life? “Wouldn’t you? I mean, savory meals and wine lists beat death any day of the week.”
    Marty smiled—a quick, polite smile—then rubbed the top of his head thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Writing about food is such a bit of fluff, really. Has fine cuisine ever really had a major impact on anyone’s life . . . changed the world? I’d be hard-pressed to cite a meal that changed society as we know it.”
    â€œDon’t forget the Twinkie,” I said.
    â€œAh, yes, the Twinkie defense. Point taken, but when you mull it over, Jane, the work you do is far more significant. I like to think that our obits pay homage to society by revealing the cycle of life; that we celebrate the human spirit, the trials and victories of the individual, the impact one person has on our global community.”
    I nodded, hoping that my eyes weren’t glossing over at the well-worn speech. “You’re absolutely right, Marty, but you have to admit, writing celebrity obits is not for everyone.”
    â€œAbsolutely,” he said. “Though you’ve proven yourself to be exceptionally perceptive, a master at researching and delineating idiosyncracies.”
    â€œThanks.” I guess that meant he’d forgotten my past transgressions. The time a soap opera actress had dumped pasta in my lap when she discovered that I was an obit writer (and thus not someone who could advance her career) and I tossed a meatball back at her. The time I told an octogenarian televangelist who whimpered about seeing the pearly gates to get over himself. The Death Beat hadn’t been a smooth run for me; I was ready for a change. “I have to admit,” I went on, “I think I’m burning out in this area. Time for a change, and when I heard that Amy was leaving, well . . .” I tossed up one hand, as if to fling home my point, but I could see that Marty wasn’t tracking. “I want to be the next restaurant critic for the Herald, Marty. I have experience working in the Wine and Dining section, and I’ve got a great track record here.” Depending on who you talk with.
    Marty leaned back in his chair and pressed a finger into his cheek as if my proposal had thrown him into a fit of consternation. “You want the food gig?” He stared off in the distance as if a vision were