Garlic and Sapphires Read Free Page A

“I’m just going for coffee,” I murmured, breathing in his sweet baby smell.
    â€œRight,” said Michael, closing the door.

    B ut I landed in New York to find the weather itself conspiring against me. It was one of those magical Manhattan springs; fresh winds were blowing gently across the island so that each time I inhaled, I breathed in the faint salt smell of the ocean. Daffodils and tulips nodded from every corner; lilacs and apple blossoms danced through the parks. On the avenues tables and chairs edged slyly onto sidewalks, promising summer. The sun poured from the sky like honey, and people threw back their heads and drank it in.
    At Tiffany’s the windows were filled with eggshells, cracked open, spilling diamonds. Customers strolled through fancy food stores collecting wild strawberries imported from France, Japanese beef bred on beer, hand-churned cream from grass-fed cows, and caviar by the pint. The restaurants were packed with handsome people begging for tables, and great crowds jockeyed in the museums, trying to get a better view. Marble buildings once black with soot had been polished to a shine, and the statues all over town were newly gilded. Alone in New York, I wandered the streets and allowed the city to seduce me.
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    I made my way back to the hotel, thinking that life in New York might not be so bad. Then a sharp female voice jerked me back to reality. “This is Carol Shaw,” said the woman on the phone. “I’m calling to
    â€œThis is Carol Shaw,” said the woman on the phone. “I’m calling to give you your schedule at the New York Times. ”
    â€œSchedule?” I asked. “What schedule? I’m supposed to meet Warren Hoge for coffee at three.”
    â€œOh,” she said, her voice softening slightly, “you haven’t heard.”
    â€œHeard? Heard what?”
    â€œAbout Warren,” she said. And now her voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s in the hospital.”
    â€œI hope it’s not serious?” I said. “I guess we’ll have to meet some other time.”
    â€œBut we were hoping you’d go see him tomorrow!” she cried. “We’ve planned your whole day!”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œYou start by visiting Warren at New York Hospital at nine. Then we have set up appointments for you with—” she started ticking off names. “And finally,” she continued, “you’ll go to the five o’clock editorial meeting and end the day in private session with the editor, Max Frankel, and the managing editor, Joe Lelyveld.”
    â€œI don’t have time for all that,” I said. “I’m really very busy. I’d only planned to spend fifteen minutes with Warren.”
    â€œI understand perfectly,” she replied. Her voice was as brittle as ice. Even the secretaries here have attitude, I thought, wondering how I could allow a woman I had never met to guilt-trip me. This Shaw person was somehow able to make her voice convey both empathy and accusation.
    â€œWhat happened to him?” I asked, relenting a little.
    â€œHe was in a restaurant,” she said. “He fell down some stairs, broke a rib, and the rib punctured his lung.” There was a strangled sound to her voice; was she trying to repress a laugh? In response I found myself biting back an inappropriate giggle.
    â€œPlease give him my best wishes,” I said, grateful that my voice sounded normal. “Tell him I hope he’ll be better soon. And that I look forward to meeting him the next time I come to New York.”
    â€œI’ll do that,” she said.
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    I immediately dialed Michael. “Can you believe the nerve of these people?” I asked. “They just went ahead and set up a whole day of interviews without even asking me!”
    â€œC’mon, Ruth,” he replied, “it’s the New York