Page 5 of The Comeback Summer

I open my desk drawer and pull out the small leather-bound journal GiGi always carried with her. Its pages are mostly filled with tidbits her clients dropped about their personal lives, fodder for future conversations. She’d remember to ask if Harvey’s grandson had gotten into his dream college, if Betty’s daughter found the perfect wedding dress, or if Little LuLu was ready for her bat mitzvah.

Maybe that’s where we went wrong. I should’ve asked Mr.Rooney about his latest colonoscopy results.

Even though I know it’s futile, I flip through the pages, hoping a nugget of her brilliance will jump out at me. Over the last five decades, GiGi worked for a portfolio of giants—but it was the Horwitz Hotel chain that put her on the map. She suggested the Jewish-owned hotel chain support the Black community after a rival hotel was in the news when an employee called security, assuming a registered guest was trespassing simply because he was Black.

One of the Freedman Group’s founding principles was using public relations to do good in the world. Our grandmother famously turned down a three-million-dollar project for a brand with a reputation for being homophobic. She made aneffort to use small-business vendors; she even funded a scholarship for women of color going into public relations.

This business carries more than her name. It’s got her heart. Herneshama. A lump forms in my throat and I blink away the tears as I tuck the notebook back in the drawer. Hannah is already in the conference room, waiting for me.

Which means I need a list of big ideas, stat.

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BY TWO O’CLOCK,the glass walls are covered with colorful Post-it notes, listing every business we have even the slightest connection to. It’s like Jewish Geography meets Six Degrees of Separation.

We have no shame in reaching out to thebubbeof someone Hannah went to college with who happens to be next-door neighbors with the guy who opened a kosher BBQ place on Broadway, or calling a friend who once hooked up with a guy whose family owns a chain of small grocery stores. Nothing and no one is off-limits.

I spin in my chair, admiring our handiwork. There have to be at least three dozen businesses listed. “I feel better already,” I tell my sister.

Hannah sighs, and my confidence crumbles.

“Most of these are small businesses—it would take at least twenty of them to cover the Rooneys’ annual scope,” she says. “And based on the numbers I crunched last night, we’ve got enough in the bank to last us three months. Tops.”

My stomach sinks. These tiny accounts aren’t going to help—we need something big.

“What if we go after Hanes?” I suggest, thinking of UnderRooneys’ biggest competitors. “Or Fruit of the Loom?”

“It’s a great idea,” Hannah says, though I can sense the “but” coming, “but the contract has a noncompete clause, remember?”

“Fuck,” I say, grateful Hannah pays attention to those stacks of pages we sign and initial. We can’t represent any direct competitor of a client for two years after the working relationship ends. It’s one reason GiGi made an effort to diversify our client roster.

“Let’s try searching theBusiness Journalagain,” my sister suggests. “There’s got to be something in there about a company with a scandal brewing. A sexist CEO? Anti-climate policies?”

“If it’s in the journal, chances are they already have a PR agency,” I say, trying not to sound as defeated as I feel. “And GiGi wouldn’t want us to represent a business that doesn’t align with our values.”

“Hmm.” Hannah stands and rubs her neck. I reach for the bottle of Advil I picked up for her yesterday, which is still in my bag. She takes the pills and we both stare at the wall, hoping to see something we may have missed.

It’s not until the air conditioner kicks on that I realize how quiet it’s gotten in the room. Hannah is the one to break the silence.

“We might have to cut the scholarship,” she says.

“No.” My voice is sharper than I mean for it to be, but public relations has always been dominated by white men, and our grandmother was committed to diversity and inclusion long before they became buzzwords. “That’s a nonnegotiable. I’d sooner close the business than put an end to the scholarship.”

Hannah slumps in the leather executive chair next tomine. I wonder how much we could make selling these to an office furniture resale company.

I’m about to suggest we take a break when the door opens.

A woman walks in, radiating such confidence that I wonder if we were expecting her. But no; we cleared our mostly empty calendars today.

The woman reminds me of Kristin Chenoweth: petite, blond, and perky. Her golden hair looks professionally styled, and her outfit—a pink sleeveless shift dress—looks like it was made just for her. She’s smiling with such unbridled excitement it’s unsettling.

I’m so taken aback, I momentarily forget that we were in the middle of a very important meeting when she waltzed in.

“Can I help you?” I ask, a tinge of annoyance in my voice.

We told Scott no interruptions. Not even if Taylor Swift got engaged or Britney announced a tour like the last time he barged into a meeting with news of an “emergency.”

Hannah kicks me under the table, and I turn to look at her, even more confused.

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