Apricot Kisses Read Online Free Page B

Camini’s lawyer thinks that your article killed his client’s grandmother.”
    “But that’s ridiculous,” I manage to say, though it sounds pathetic.
    “I don’t think so at all. I can imagine how an old lady who suffers from a heart condition would come across your sharp pen . . .” Hellwig pauses and slowly shakes his head. “Of course, nobody can force a magazine to fire its writers. I mean, where would we be if we allowed that? But Donnermuth’s law office is pretty good at making offers that are hard to refuse.”
    I can’t laugh about the butchered Godfather quote. Pressure plays an accordion in my chest. My article killed an old lady.
    I killed an old lady.
    I didn’t mean to.
    I didn’t. Really.
    “Donnermuth has good media contacts and is not shy about using them. You can imagine how it could play out, how everyone you’ve insulted in the course of your career will react to the story of the sweet Italian granny whose restaurant has been in her family for generations. They’ll tear you apart. Frau Philipp, I love the magazine, and I do believe that journalists are replaceable.”
    “But everything I wrote about Tre Camini is true,” I say. “The food is a catastrophe; the soup alone . . . the pasta was . . . and the service—”
    Hellwig interrupts me with an indignant gesture. “I’m not discussing with you whether or not your review was justified. Obviously the article is not responsible for the old woman’s death. Herr Camini, however, views the whole matter more emotionally, and so we have to control the damage.”
    “But if we aren’t wrong, then why should we relent? Why should we sugarcoat an article that informs our readers? This is an attack on the freedom of the press.”
    “Maybe because you’re smart and you like your job?” Hellwig says. Am I mistaken, or does his face show some pity? Everything is clear to me now, and it sweeps away every ounce of security in my life. Hellwig gave up on me long ago.
    “You can’t be serious.”
    “I am completely serious. You’re a brilliant writer, but you’ve become somewhat expensive lately. Our lawyers pull in their heads whenever your name comes up, and after the Rothfeld matter . . .” He looks troubled, but his eyes remain cold as steel.
    My mouth feels stuffed full of cotton balls. “Rothfeld is a con man. The report from the Institute of Food Technology proved that he was selling trout as arctic char.”
    “Here we go again.” Hellwig sighs. “Just tell me, what restaurant critic would send a piece of fish to a lab? You’re losing your sense of scale, Frau Philipp. We aren’t the Office of Criminal Investigation. You aren’t solving ritual murder cases, but writing an entertaining column in a food magazine that sells for three euros and eighty cents. It’s as unrelated to Guide Michelin as my laptop is to the Voyager program.”
    “I know that,” I whisper, but the boss isn’t done.
    “It’s not that I don’t admire your courage,” he says. “You’re a career woman with backbone, and you don’t mince words. But you are going too far. Sometimes you don’t have any sense of moderation or tact. You’d probably have been burned at the stake if you’d lived during the Middle Ages.”
    “Does that mean I’m fired?” The palms of my hands are dripping wet; I feel blood rushing to my head. I’m losing control of myself. I scan the table for something that will put an end to this feeling. Other than Hellwig’s teacup, the table is empty. What’s with this restaurant? If it’s too much to offer a vase with some pathetic artificial flowers, couldn’t they at least put out salt shakers? I mean, I can’t swipe the spoon from my boss’s saucer.
    I start to tremble. My eyes fall to the windowsill, which has two huge planters—and a striped porcelain vase.
    “So this is what you’ll do, Frau Philipp. You’ll publish a friendly retraction of your article in the July issue. You will apologize for