In the Arms of One Who Loves Me - Hardcover

Jacqueline Jones LaMon is a poet and writer.
She lives in Southern California.

NIA

Early again. Maybe it was the fact that it was Friday and folks wanted to make it a long weekend. Maybe it was the premature springlike weather that was encouraging the masses to call in sick. Whatever it was, Nia Benson didn't care. Days like these made a woman rejoice in her womanhood; days like these made a woman inhale and feel energy literally expand within her soul.

She had made the thirteen-mile bike trip with no incident, just wind in her face and glorious morning thoughts cascading down her back. No cabdrivers had given her the finger, no exposed cobblestones had caught her tires and made her fall. This had been the ideal commute. She locked the bike in the back room behind the vestibule and took the stairs briskly to the second floor.

"Nia, Nia, Nia . . . fabulous morning, isn't it?" No matter how early she arrived, Jonathan Feinstein always beat her to the office. His office. He strolled through the waiting area, adjusting the worn magazines, making flimsy, halfhearted attempts at knocking imaginary dust off the blinds.

"Hey, boss. Sure was a beautiful ride today. Did you ride in this morning, too?" Nia placed her black canvas backpack behind her desk in the reception area and mentally reviewed the calls she needed to place first thing. There was a photo shoot at eleven . . . a voice-over session at two. And a file folder full of rejections to deliver.

"Of course, I have to keep my Ivy League physique intact!" Nia laughed as he stretched out his maroon suspenders to fit a man twice his size. He took this fitness thing very seriously, encouraging all of his employees to incorporate some regular program into their day. When Nia started at Feinstein, he had given her a choice of accepting a local gym membership or the use of "company wheels": a ten-speed Peugeot to provide her daily transportation. It was no contest. She had no interest in being inside a closed space with a bunch of sweating strangers, had no desire to schedule a time to be active. So even in the rain, even in light snow, Nia navigated that bike over the Brooklyn Bridge, through the congested streets of lower Manhattan, to the East 70s.

It was the air. She always had to have the air.

Jonathan Feinstein, ruddy and clean-shaven, lived only seven blocks from the company offices, in a fabulous three-bedroom condo overlooking the East River. It was a distance that was close enough to walk on most days, but impressions were critical in the world of television commercial production, even from his side of the camera. If his employees saw him climbing on the bike day after day, they were more likely to support his policies and climb on their own bikes. And it worked. Jonathan was a well-liked, debonair, successful man creating success in a fickle industry. And he had his own definition of how success should manifest.

"Jonathan, let me go and shower before the day gets under way," Nia called as she walked to the production area, backpack in hand. "I'll be out in just a few."

"Take your time, take your time." Jonathan slightly adjusted the position of her chair behind the reception desk and strolled to his corner office, humming the melody to a catchy jingle he was creating.

Feinstein Films felt like home. She had done temp work here the summer before her senior year in college, and just absolutely loved it. It wasn't the business, it was Jonathan. She wasn't that excited about working in advertising or production, but she recognized the man to be a catalyst for success. She craved for herself the glow that seemed to follow him around. She didn't envision herself staying in the field of commercial production; she had always wanted to try her hand at public relations. But this job offered her exposure to the inner workings of the entertainment business and was giving her a much needed education in people. She loved the small company atmosphere, the hectic pace, the quirky personalities. The money? Well, okay, the money was downright awful, but at least she was able to pay her bills for the moment and keep smiling. At least she could keep Sallie Mae from knocking on her door in the middle of the night, demanding student loan payments at gunpoint. And it gave her the flexibility she needed to learn the ropes. So right after marching with the Class of 1980, she accepted the offer to come and learn the business in the position of "administrative assistant." Yeah, right. She was working as a receptionist, pure and simple, but it was something to put on her resume.

And how many other jobs offered the perks this one did? Inside the shower stall of the models' dressing room, Nia gloriously inhaled the rising steam. The scent of her favorite vanilla oatmeal soap invigorated her, made her grateful for a new day. She loved getting here early enough to renew herself this way, loved the indulgence. It steadied her.

Nia emerged totally refreshed, dressed swiftly, and felt prepared to do her job. She approvingly checked herself in the full-length mirror and then made her way to the staff kitchen to get her morning cranberry juice. The daily bicycle rides to and from Brooklyn had served her body well; her waist was trim, her legs toned, her arms sculpted. Her black silk jersey dress only accentuated the positive and served as an elegant backdrop to the magenta silk blazer that graced her shoulders.

It was turning out to be a great day.

"Nia! My calls. Damn, I'm late again." Lisa hurled herself into the office. Lisa Gold was a blemished, short, and chunky blond, albeit drugstore blond, who was Jonathan's niece by marriage. She had recently joined the crew and was trying to learn the business, but was severely deficient in terms of tact and poise.

"Good morning to you, too. Three calls."

"Already?"

"Already. Tricia called about the permit for the Kensington shoot. She said she really needs your paperwork by ten and . . ." A look of severe panic took over Lisa's face.

"Oh my Gawd . . . oh my Gawd!" Lisa shouted and dropped her new leather briefcase down with a thud.

"Lisa, what's the matter?" Nia asked quietly. She knew full well what the problem was. The woman hadn't even attempted to get the permit completed. Nia had heard Jonathan reminding her several times during the past two weeks about the assignment, and several times she had heard Lisa tell him that she had the job under control.

"Well, I just don't have time to do it. I don't have time to do everything! If you knew about the deadline, and I assume you did since you seem to know all about my business, why didn't you remind me? Huh? Why aren't you competent enough to give me a simple reminder? I'm tired of having to deal with the tacky . . . hired . . . help who don't care enough about the company to give a woman a simple reminder."

No, she didn't.

Not this time, Nia fumed. She looked up at Lisa and observed this ranting and raving as though she were watching a silent film. None of the words coming out of Lisa's mouth mattered. Lisa was one of those princesses who had had everything handed to her--her job, her education, her car, her money, her opportunities, her life. Nia was not about to come to her rescue again. Lisa had received two raises in the four months she had been on the job, her own office, and use of Nia as her quasi-personal assistant. And in that same period of time, Nia had received no financial thanks, nothing to indicate they were grateful for her contribution to the company. Nia decided it was time Feinstein Films came to realize that Lisa was no grand company asset. It was truth time.

"Well, there's just no way in hell that I can get that permit done by ten! It's after nine now and I'm supposed to be at my shoot at eleven!" Lisa was sweating.

Nia refused to lose her composure.

"Lisa, isn't that Margo's shoot?" Nia crossed her legs and smoothed her hand over the waves of her hair that were conservatively caught into a bun at the nape of her neck.

"Of course it's Margo's shoot, Neeta, but I'm supposed to be observing things so that the next shoot can be more . . . well, you know . . . under my direction." Nia was not going to bite on the name foul up. It was so juvenile. And so typical of this woman.

"Well, Lisa, I believe you have several options open to you at this time."

"Which are?" Lisa placed her hands on her hips and looked down on her.

Thankfully, the phone rang. Nia slowly and gracefully reached for the receiver and picked it up on the second ring. After rendering the traditional greeting, Nia was grateful to learn that she was somewhat acquainted with the client on the other end. It was now chitchat time. She leaned back in her chair.

After a few minutes of polite conversation, Lisa's patience took a nosedive.

"Nia! Get off the phone!" Lisa hissed, baring her teeth, clenching her fists, and looking very much like a two-year-old in the midst of a full-blown tantrum.

"Er, Ms. Adelman . . . okay, okay, Katherine . . . can you hold for just one tiny moment? I'm very sorry, but there is something that seems to require my most immediate attention. I'll be right with you. . . ." Nia placed the call on hold and looked up calmly at the woman/child enraged.

"You're doing this on purpose. We are in the midst of a company crisis and you are doing this on purpose." Lisa opened and closed her hands, as though she were contemplating either playing a piano concerto or having a fistfight.

"I'm having a conversation with one of our clients. That is my job, you know. To answer the phones? I am functioning here as the receptionist, remember? And you are the talented relative who doesn't have a clue. Now, if you don't mind, I have a great deal of work to do . . . and looking at the time, dear, it appears that you do as well." Nia picked up her crystal desk clock ...