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Page 21.
Chapter 17.
 Lexa Whiston met Arthur Robinson for lunch at a diner.
"How did your morning go?" Arthur asked somewhat forlornly. "Just fine," she said, putting her hand over his while they waited for their sandwiches. "How did yours go?" She wanted to somehow help him out of this glumness. The inky clouds, the blustering winds outside their rain-pelted window were not helping.
Arthur rubbed his hands together as though trying to start a fire. "Fine, fine. I'm working on that elusive five million annual sales. Got to show your Grandfather, you know."
"I'm glad, darling." She hated the idea that anyone had to show Grandfather anything, but supposed if you were going to marry someone you had to go along with a lot of things. "I had a nice time this weekend." They had gone to a formal party Saturday evening, and before Arthur could get involved in stuffy conversations about money, she'd spirited him away to a romantic place with dancing and candlelight, until his feet had begun to hurt so they'd gone to his penthouse and drunk champagne and watched an old black and white movie. Sunday they'd sat around and read the paper. Then they'd gone for a drive in the countryside.
Arthur seemed to be reminiscing about the same things. He still had that look. "Lexa, I hate to keep bringing it up, but I do wish you'd at least give me an idea about when we can live together."
She laughed that wave of thought back against him. "Don't be silly. There's no hurry. You still have so much to do, building the business up and all."
"But it would be so much more fun with you around."
"I know, I know, darling, but I can't just pack up and move in with you now."
"Well it doesn't have to be now," he said. "I'd just like to have an idea when."
"Well, my mother hasn't been feeling so well. And you KNOW Grandfather won't spend a penny to help her out."
"I can fix all that," Arthur pleaded. "For heaven's sake. Just say the word and I'll set up a trust fund. She can have any kind of monthly income she needs. Your Grandfather doesn't need to know."
Lexa shook her head. "Darling, you know that would be suicide for you. If Grandfather found out..."
"But--"
"No buts. I can't let you take that chance. Look, why don't we finish our sandwiches because my lunch break is nearly over."
Arthur darkened. "For heaven's sake, Lexa, you could practically own your own company. Take lunch when and how long you feel like it..."
Lexa rose, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. "Listen, Arthur, I really have to run." She glanced at the wall clock, almost thankfully. She kissed his cheek. "I'll be home this evening. Call me if you wish, okay?" With that she dashed out, thankful for the cool wet wind outside.
When she returned to the office, her fellow editorial assistant Meg Brownlea took her aside. Meg was a pretty young blonde who always seemed dressed in denim and wool. Often Meg went out on the balcony to smoke. At the moment, Meg smelled of cigarettes and Lexa rumpled her nose.
Lexa looked around the deserted rabbit warren of rooms and cubbyholes, the tumble of knickknacks and piles of manuscripts, the bohemian posters and umbrellas. "Is everyone still out to lunch?" She wondered where her boss, Jay Pincus, was.
Meg said: "They're all in a meeting. Something very hush-hush. I peeked in a while ago. Long faces." Meg held both hands a foot before her nose, as though holding a horse's face: "Long, LONG faces."
Lexa hung up her coat and brushed her hair. "Did you make another pot of coffee?"
"Yes," Meg hollered from beyond the tall bookcase that divided their cubbyhole of an office.
"Thanks." Lexa wandered out to the mess and poured herself a coffee. How simple, she thought, if people did not get engaged and married and all that. What was the purpose of it all? Life could be so simple if you just worked, drank coffee, and went home. Watched old movies. Alone.
"Here's a pile of manuscripts for you," Meg said when Lexa returned to her desk. "The messenger just came while you were getting your coffee.
Lexa gasped at the ton of paper segregated into wrinkled envelopes. Meg peered out from her cubby, black wool sweater contrasting with her pale skin and blonde hair. She pointed to a fat OverNight Express envelope with distinctive green-striped border. "That's a reject by Jay Pincus. You just need to put it in one of our envelopes with a rejection form."
"Yes," Lexa said, grateful for Meg's guiding hand. Idly, she picked up the O.N.E. envelope. It looked important. A lot of money had been spent mailing it. It was addressed personally to Jay Pincus. Why then was it being rejected so out of hand? She set her coffee down, sat behind her rampart of raw manuscripts, and pulled the Pincus reject out of its envelope.
As she did so, an odd feeling came over her. A ringing in the ears. "The Future of The Race," by Thomas Armaday... now why did that make the roots of her hair tingle as though electrodes had been inserted into her scalp? She shuddered, leafed through the book, then dropped it as though it had burned her fingers.
Meg breezed over carrying a box of bond paper. "Your personalized rejection letters are here, with your signature block. Jonathan Grace believes in the personal touch."
"Thanks," Lexa said. The form letters were beautifully printed in black ink on white paper, with a blue and gold letterhead with scrolls and logo. At the bottom, they read: "Sincerely, Lexa Whiston, Assistant Editor."
"Use a blue fine tip pen," Meg said. "It assures the person their manuscript was read by a live human being. Pincus is funny," Meg whispered. "Usually he signs his own rejection slips. Once in a while there's one he hates so much that he kicks it down to us. This must have been one of those."
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