This story is by W.E. Pearson and was part of our 2025 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.
The day holds the promise of getting a job I don’t want but need.
On the train, I psych myself up to meet these two book publisher partners, with annual sales in the $300 million range.
As I enter the reception area, I’m confronted by a vast, monolithic desk of highly polished black marble. It is both opulent in its craftsmanship and utterly formidable in its scale, resembling a sprawling castle that overlooks the foyer. Where’s the moat?
My mind reflects on the book I’m reading that teaches the philosophy of reincarnation. It says that there is a day of destiny when two paths cross, and you meet someone you knew from a past life. Could it be I’ve worked in this cultural elite literary world before? I’m not sure, but if I did, would my past self have any tips?
“Good morning, I’m Mr. Velton. We spoke on the phone,” says the hiring partner. “Please follow me.”
It’s hard to miss that he’s wearing an expensive Armani suit. I smile and follow him down the hallway. As we turn into his corner office, I’m in awe of the breathtaking NYC skyline.
“Please be seated,” says Mr. Velton.
He reviews my resume and asks me his questions, and I answer. He offers me the job and I accept. It all went well. That is, until my new boss walks me down the hallway to the other end of the floor to where his partner is.
We enter the office, and his partner stands dressed in a Brioni suit, the epitome of “Roman Style” elegance. He reaches over his desk, smiles, and shakes my hand. He looks me right in the eyes and says, “I’m Joe Edwards. Nice to meet you, Annie.”
The tone of his voice and the touch of his hand evoke a fleeting sensation of déjà vu—not only a sense of familiarity but intimacy. Joe is a high-powered businessman who travels in elite literary circles, and I don’t. Did we know each other in a past life, and this is the day of destiny I just read about?
I look into Joe’s eyes, but he breaks eye contact with me.
My new boss says, “Annie, Joe will give you your start date.”
“Would April 14th work for you?
“Yes,” I say. |
“Welcome to E & V Associates, Annie.”
This, to me, is a two-way déjà vu moment. Joe’s hand is shaking as he hands me his business card, and I leave.
It’s a quick fourteen-minute daily train commute from my Hoboken apartment to NYC.
I arrive at E & V, and Mr. Velton is waiting at reception to greet me, then takes me on a whirlwind office tour. The staff room has a fully stocked kitchen with carafes of coffee and tea, a microwave, and a fridge.
I grab a coffee and sit at my desk. My new boss says to call him Rick unless clients are in the office.
I’m not looking for Joe, but I’m conscious he must be in his office at the other end of the hallway.
The morning flies by as I read and review my submissions, rejecting anything that uses AI.
Joe and Rick arrive at my desk and say they are taking me to lunch in honor of my first day. I wasn’t expecting that, as I’m a lowly publishing assistant (PA).. But Rick said there’s a whole team of PAs in a big office he points to, called the bullpen. But they’ve given me my own desk located near Rick’s office.
I follow Rick and Joe to the lobby elevator, and the company driver is waiting outside our building to take us to the restaurant.
The expensive Italian restaurant they’ve chosen is elegant. Joe’s a class act, ultra-attentive and polite. A couple of times, I catch him staring at me as we eat our lunch. I thank them both for the delicious meal, and our waiting car takes us back to the office, and the day flies by.
It’s a fast commute home. I’m tired, wash and go to bed. I jerk awake with a pain in my ass—like someone kicked me. It’s not a dream. It’s real and it hurts. I get up and shower. I’m finishing up in the bathroom when I’m overcome by a memory so vivid that it transports me back to my shared past with Joe Edwards. When we were married and living in a condo, the one where he passed away in his sleep. We were not moneyed as his life portrays today. We would have been wealthy down the road, but an investment we made tanked. We lost our shirts. He got the call in the morning, and he died that night. It was a shock to both of us, but I swear it killed him. He left me alone to pay off all the bills—not that I blame him. Not until the day I went to the bank and made the final payment of all our debt.
A tsunami of memories comes back to me like waves on a deserted beach about that fatal day.
I had left the teller window and saw the bank manager waving me over to the back waiting area. He tells me that my deceased husband had another bank account at a different location.
“I know of only one joint bank account between us,” I say.
“This isn’t a joint account,” he says.
My brain exploded in my head when that bomb went off.
The bank manager says, “Our bank requires you to produce the probated will to access the funds.
“There was nothing to probate,” I told him. “We were in substantial debt when he died. You saw me make the final payment today, and you’re telling me this now—five years later? ” I remember I didn’t wait around for an answer but headed for the bank exit.
I speed-walked the ten minutes home, opened my condo door, and blacked out in the hallway. I came to, got up, and felt a hard kick in the ass—the second one. Why does it take two kicks from the grave from my dead husband to get the message? “I hope it was worth it,” I say out loud.
What a death blow to my heart. Not only did I bury him, but he buried the truth about his secret bank account.
I’m transported back to the present. To my tiny Hoboken apartment, when there’s a loud knock at my door. I’m still reeling from the revelation of betrayal as I open the door, and Joe Edwards is standing there. His presence takes me aback, and I say, “What are you doing here?”
“Christy,” he says with tears in his eyes. “I’m such a fool. Can we talk?” I waved him in and closed the door for privacy.
“So, you do remember?” I ask. “Never call me Christy again. That life of lies and so-called marriage is over. In fact, to me, it never happened. You gutted me, and nothing you can say or do will ever change the suffering and pain you put me through. And the debt load I paid off—both yours and mine. Only to find out from the bank that you had a secret bank account in another location. Did you really think so little of me that you had to hide money from me? ”
“Once déjà vu brought back memories of who you were, I had to see you and apologize.” Declan, it wasn’t enough to destroy my previous life; you had to show up here and ruin this one, too? ”
“Let me make it up to you, Christy. Will you at least think about it? ”
“I don’t have to think about it, Declan. You only get one chance to do the right thing. You made your decision, and I’ve made mine. Please leave.”
The last thing I hear is the sound of his footsteps walking away and the front door closing.
I go into the kitchen to make a cup of tea and calm down. Whatever Declan and I had, or I thought we had, is dead and gone.
My cell phone rings, and I rush to answer it and see it’s E & V Associates. It better not be Joe calling.”
Hello.
Annie, is that you?
Yes, Mr. Velton.
Call me, Rick.
Did Joe tell you we know each other?
Yes, he told me he’s met you before. I still want you to work here.
It would be awkward.
Hear me out. I have plans that can benefit your career.
You do?
Yes. I see great potential in you, and I’m going to teach you the book publishing business from the bottom up.
Why?
Do you want to learn and be successful in the literary world?
Yes.
I’m giving you a chance—no strings attached.
My heart is pumping out of my chest because I thought all was lost.
Be in at nine o’clock tomorrow.
I’ll be there. And Rick…
Yes?
Thank you.
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