I looked around. Everyone was on the plane already. Everyone but me, that is.
“Nick, are you there?” asked Courtney. “I need to know if you can do this. Tell me you’re in.”
Now it was my turn to milk it for a few seconds.
“Nick? Nick? Are you there? Nick? Damn you – stop playing silly games.”
“Oh, I’m in,” I said finally. “I’m in.”
Way over my head, as I’d find out.
“I never had a doubt,” said Courtney. “You bleed Yankee pinstripes, isn’t that right, Nick?”
TWO FLIGHTS, eight time zones, and twenty exceedingly long hours later, I was finally wheels down at JFK at a little before eleven the next morning. Walking off the plane I felt like a zombie. I probably looked and smelled like one, too.
There was only one message waiting for me as I ditched the satellite phone for my iPhone. It was Courtney, of course.
“Lombardo’s. Twelve thirty,” she reminded me. “And don’t be late! This is the big one, Nick. You’ll probably get a book deal out of it. And a film. So don’t blow it, guy.”
Thanks, boss…
There are a couple of things I think you need to know about Courtney Sheppard at this point. First, at the relatively young age of thirty-four, she’s the editor in chief of Citizen magazine – the same magazine that in only two short years of existence has defied the odds and done what so many other upstarts will never do. Turn a profit.
On the heels of editor stints at both Vanity Fair and The Atlantic, Courtney made a formula for success at Citizen by taking those two magazines’ seemingly divergent sensibilities and combining them into one. Smart move. But then again, she’s a smart woman.