Timothy Read Online Free PDF

before I could say anything I recognized her.
    â€œValerie Franklin?” I somehow managed, and could think of nothing else to say. She inclined her head slightly to acknowledge my recognition and tugged on my hand again. Her facial expression let me know there was no point in resisting. So I stood and followed her through the crowded room, nodding and looking down as people murmured more condolences. She pushed open the French doors and I followed her out onto the side lawn. She sat down in a wrought iron chair painted white in the shade of an enormous tree, and indicated with a hand that I should sit in the other chair.
    She was a very small woman, much smaller than I had imagined, but she carried herself like a queen. I had been regaled with tales of her success in the jungle of magazine publishing for most of my life, and while I had seen her photograph on the editorial page of Street Talk , in my mind I always pictured her as a kind of modern-day St. Joan ready to drive the English out of Orleans. But the reality was she was just barely over five feet tall in her heels, and very slender—a mere wisp of a woman. She couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds. She had a heart-shaped face, with black hair brushed back from a widow’s peak and a broad forehead. Her chin was sharp, and her mouth small, her lips thin. When she spoke, I could see small white teeth. Her hands were also small, so small they looked like they would be more at home holding a tiny teacup at a party for dolls than the glass of whiskey and ice she sipped from periodically.
    â€œSo, tell me, what are you going to do?” she asked shortly after we sat down. Her voice was sharp and pointed, like her chin. When I didn’t answer, she made an annoyed sound and went on, “I know about your situation, I know there’s no money and you have to sell the house, so you won’t have a place to live and you don’t have a job or any prospects.” She narrowed her eyes and tilted her head to one side. “Or has any of that changed?”
    She caught me completely off guard. I had no idea she—or anyone other than Mr. Sharpe, for that matter—knew anything about my situation. I fumbled for words, not certain what to say. “I, um—”
    Her small black eyes glittered, and she pursed her lips. “You haven’t the slightest idea of what you’re going to do, do you? I figured as much.” She finished the whiskey and put it down. “Your father despaired of you having to make your way in the world on your own.”
    I felt color creeping into my face.
    â€œHe asked me to help you, should the need ever arise, and God help me, I said I would.” She shook her head as she opened her small black bag and fished out a business card. It was creamy vellum, with her name in raised black print directly in the center. Below it were listed a couple of phone numbers, a street address, and an e-mail address. She sighed. “I am certain that I am going to regret this, but I do owe your father.” She looked back at the house. “Your father convinced me I could make it in New York, that I had what it took to be a success. Whenever I had doubts I could call him and he would give me the strength to keep fighting.” She inhaled and wrote a phone number on the back of the card with an expensive looking pen—I later learned it was a Montblanc. “This is the number for the personnel director at my office. Call her tomorrow.” She held out the card to me. “Go on, take it. My assistant is leaving at the end of the month, and God help me, I’m offering you the job. Call Arlene—she’ll make arrangements, find you an apartment, and we’ll advance you the money for deposits and so forth, as well as a ticket to New York. You need to report to work on the first, is that clear?”
    I stared at the card. “Yes.”
    â€œI know you have a journalism