by Rachel Hauck
“Fine.” He sighed, yanked his keys from the hook by the back door, and headed down to the super’s closet for his tools.
By the time he arrived at Mabel’s, her apartment door stood open, spilling the golden glow of a cozy home over her feet and into the hall, and he wasn’t nearly as miffed. Besides, the fragrance of pasta, cheese, and tomato sauce still saturated the atmosphere.
“I am sorry to bother you, Ed. Did you have to go down for your tools? Tell you what, I’ve got coffee on, decaf, and fresh-from-the-oven brownies for your trouble.”
Brownies. He stopped short, his mouth watering. He loved a good brownie and vanilla ice cream. His absolute favorite. Used to make them with Esmerelda, then Holly. What happy memories brownies make. Maybe he should start his story there.
You might wonder if a love story can start with brownies. I tell you, it can. Listen to what happened to me.
“The doctor has me off sweets.” Was it wrong to not want to share his favorite with Mabel? “And never mind about the disposal. I’ll buy you a new one if we need to. Shouldn’t run you more than fifty bucks.” He crossed her living room toward the kitchen, passed the dining table still set for two. Tall tapers beat their flames against the shadows while ol’ Bobby Darin sang “Mack the Knife” from a vintage hi-fi.
Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear.
Chapter 6
Lexa
She’d developed the habit of leaving her third-floor, walk-up apartment door open when she arrived home on Friday nights. When the weather was nice, music floated up from the streets. Mickey the Irish singer was her favorite.
She wanted to believe she embraced some part of the weekend by living vicariously through the vibe in the Village, through her lively neighbors and the hubbub behind the walls.
Especially Abby, the NYU senior majoring in theater. But tonight, her place across the hall remained dark and quiet.
Lexa turned the heat down beneath her chicken-and-broccoli stir-fry, sipped from her glass of wine, then took a plate from the cupboard.
The weekend was her time to cook. Working for a restaurateur had sparked her otherwise dull interest in culinary arts. But she wasn’t very skilled. She overcooked everything.
Pouring the contents from the pan onto her plate, Lexa settled in the low red reading chair under the window of the rectangular living room.
Eight hundred square feet was all she could afford after the split. But she was saving for something bigger. If Zane promoted her, she’d earn enough to move uptown.
Well, not literally uptown. She’d considered moving north after the divorce. Being three blocks from Jett, she feared running into him as they schlepped about the neighborhood.
Then Zane purchased the Tribeca office space and moving didn’t make sense.
A laugh bounced off a distant wall. She raised her head. Abby? The occasional laugh or shout, even the muffled sounds of a television show, gave Lexa a sense of belonging. Proof she was among the living and not so very much alone.
That sense was why she loved ZB Enterprises. She belonged. She more than belonged. She was one of the steering forces of the company.
A bit of pride—no, satisfaction—filled her chest. Finding her place had never been easy. And when she did, it usually ended in disaster.
ZB Enterprises was the one place outside her family where she belonged. Where she mastered her own ship and destiny.
Look out, Zane, I’m coming for you.
She watched a show on Netflix as she ate, then washed her plate and returned it to the shelf. Her next place would have a dishwasher.
Beyond the window, the sun had long gone west. She peered down into the street, curious where her Greenwich Village neighbors were going on this Friday night in such a hurry.
After a moment, she changed into her comfy sweats, pulled her hair back in a ponytail, and smothered her face in a charcoal mask produced by her favorite cosmetics company, CCW.
She regarded her reflection, her hazel eyes peering over the muddy concoction.
What was Monday night about? So weird. She’d texted Jett on Wednesday asking once again if he was behind the invitation. He promised he was as confused as she.
So should she go back?
Besides running into Jett, her week had been frustrating. There was no time to talk to Zane about the CEO job. He was busy or on a call, going to a spontaneous meeting not on his calendar. He even took a last-minute flight Wednesday to survey a new location for ZB Burgers in Waco.
Thursday night, Lexa had texted her baby sister, Skipper, the newly minted NASA engineer, for courage.
Do you think he’s avoiding me?
No. He’s busy. You’re not going to get the perfect moment. Just tell him, “I’m your girl.”
Easier said than done.
Then apply for the job like any other candidate. He’ll have to interview you.
True. He posted the job months ago and has yet to interview anyone.
He’s waiting for you.
Then why doesn’t he just ask me?
You’re killing me here. Apply already. And text Dad. See what he says. You know he thinks you have a great business mind.
He takes forever to text back. Never know where he and Mom are in Zambia. Are you still visiting them in October?
Yes. You should come.
Zaney Days. Too busy. Spring?
“Lex? Hey, you here?”
Abby’s voice drew Lexa from the bathroom, her face still plastered.
“Pardon the mud mask. But look at you.” Abby was dressed like an eighties punk rocker. “Cyndi Lauper. Where are you headed?”
“An eighties party. Obviously. Want to come?” She motioned to Lexa’s face. “You’re already halfway to one of the zombies in ‘Thriller.’”
“Ha. But I think I’m in for the night.” Lexa fingered the drying mask. “Maybe another time.” Her head told her to go, try new things. Her heart warned her to stay inside, stay focused, stay safe.
“Abby?” Boy George, followed by Michael Jackson, and what was probably the one-armed drummer from Def Leppard (but you could see his “missing arm” beneath his T-shirt) came in from the hall.
“I’m trying to get Lexa to go with us.”
“With that mask on, you could be one of the ‘Thriller’ zombies.” This from the man himself, Michael.
“That’s what I said.” Abby laughed and slipped her arm though Boy George’s.
“I’m honored, Mr. Jackson, but I’m going to stay in and read.” Perhaps make her application for ZB’s CEO.
Abby shoved her friends out the door. “If you change your mind, Lex, call me. We’ll be in SoHo.” She drew the door closed behind her. “Pretty depressing to spend a Friday home alone with a book and a mud mask, don’t you think?”
Lexa closed the door behind them and twisted the lock. Sitting at home on Friday night used to be the highlight of her week. When she and Jett were first married they’d order takeout, then curl up on the couch for a movie or good book, their legs intertwined. The evening always ended with them on the floor, naked.
Always? No, not always. When the pressure of grad school started taking a toll he barely left his “work chair.” Under deadline, he went days without showering.
Those honeymoon days were short-lived but remained so vibrant in her mind.
She shivered. Forgetting the love of her life was not going as well as she’d hoped. Seeing him Monday stirred old feelings and awakened sleeping memories.
Curling up in her reading chair, she picked up the book she’d found at a used bookstore and tried to read. But Jett’s face kept floating across her mind.
After reading the same paragraph five times, she closed the book and reached for her phone.
I saw Jett Monday night.
Closing her eyes, she waited for Skipper’s well-punctuated reply.
A wave of nostalgia crashed against her. She missed her parents and the camaraderie they shared traipsing from state to state, countr
y to country, air force base to air force base.
If she could go to Zambia with Skip she’d pack her bags in a heartbeat, but Zaney Days required all hands on deck.
She stared at her phone. No reply.
He looked good. Maybe too good. Still has that wild mop of hair and steel jaw, and I’m amazed a book nerd dwells beneath that striking face.
When they met on Landis Green at FSU, her middle flip-flopped. Honest to goodness flip-flopped. She never imagined Jett Wilder would give her more than a passing glance, let alone become her friend, ask her out, then become her husband.
Lexa shoved off her chair to make a cup of tea. The unwitting stroll down memory lane had her twisted and knotted.
Come on, Skip, answer.
What was she doing on a Friday night in Cocoa Beach? Of course, she lived in the same coastal county where she’d graduated high school and college. She had longtime friends. A perk of being the youngest. She was in middle school and Lexa was a sophomore when their parents finally stopped moving.
Standing at the stove, she waited for the kettle to whistle, then poured the water in a cup from her grandmother’s china set.
Back in her chair, she continued her story to Skipper.
I got this weird invitation to a story society being held at an old library on Fifth Avenue.
If Fifth Avenue didn’t get her attention, then Skipper wasn’t near her phone. It was that simple. She loved the city. Visited Lexa whenever she could get a long weekend.
I was the last to arrive. I walk in and there stood Jett. I lost my breath for a second. Then got mad. Did he set this up? There were five of us all together. Chuck, an Uber driver. Ed, a widower trying to write his love story. And, get this, the Panicked Princess and owner of CCW Cosmetics herself, Coral Winthrop. She seemed really humble and demure. I, however, wanted to fall at her feet. MENTOR ME! Skip? Did you hear me? Coral Winthrop? Fifth Avenue?
When Skipper visited Lexa over Christmas they spent an entire afternoon at the Saks Fifth Avenue CCW counter.
Anyway, turns out we all got the same weird invitation. No one knows why and we can’t seem to find any sort of connection. We’re meeting this Monday to dig a little deeper. Not sure I’ll keep up with the game afterward.
Pausing her story, she set her phone aside, sipped her tea, then fingered the dry mask. She’d left it on too long. Removing it would require a hammer and chisel.
As she washed her face with warm water and a washcloth, she listened for her phone. No ping. By the time she finished her bedtime tea and watched a rerun of the nineties sitcom Frasier, Skipper had not returned any of her texts.
Okay, you must be busy. Good night.
Lexa climbed the steep ladder to her loft bed—always with the fear of missing a rung and falling backward—connected her phone to the charger, and burrowed under the covers.
In the middle of the dark night, she dreamed Zane gave the CEO job to someone else as a prize-fight bell rang over and over in the background.
Only it wasn’t a prize-fight bell but texts from Skipper. Lexa woke and stared at the phone’s screen. Fifty-eight texts from baby sister.
What?!?!?!?!?! You saw Jett!!??
Lexa? Hey, LEXA! Wake up!
Rolling over with a grin, she snuggled down.
Serves the girl right. She’d just have to wait until morning.
* * *
Jett
Sitting in his office Monday afternoon under a stream of angled sunlight, grading Comm 1 papers, he waited for any one of his many students to cross the threshold during office hours.
But none came. Too bad, because Billy Price in Comm 2 needed help. Maybe he’d catch the kid after class on Wednesday.
“Knock, knock.” Renée appeared at his door. “Got a sec?”
“What’s up?” He glanced at his watch, standing as she took a seat by his desk.
He needed to leave for the story society in fifteen minutes. He glanced toward the boxy window anchored in the brick wall of his office situated in one of the college’s original buildings. The steel plate in the foyer said Built in 1862.
“How’s it going?”
Renée didn’t typically start her conversations with leading questions. Jett braced for the reprimand he’d been expecting all week. Renée had been at the wedding, but she left the reception early. Before the big brawl.
Two days ago Jett cracked open the faculty handbook to see how many Orders of Conduct he’d violated last Sunday. He counted at least three.
“The faculty of New York College is held to a high standard . . . Years of excellence and esteemed traditions . . .”
“Don’t coddle me, Renée. How bad have I disgraced the college?”
“Hadley Bennet told the whole story. Said the groomsman had it coming.” She sat back, legs crossed, a square white card in her hand. “The dean asked me about it on Wednesday, but I said it was all blown out of proportion. However, if you can, control yourself in the future—”
“Thank you, Renée. I promise, no more drunken outbursts.” He opened the middle desk drawer and took out a letter. “Jenn’s father sent an accounting of the damage by registered mail. My portion is about two grand. Wrote him a check last night.”
She winced. “Two grand? Pretty steep for a man on an associate professor’s salary. Is that space-navy tome of yours making any money yet?”
“Kick a man when he’s down, why don’t you.”
He’d emptied all but a grand from his meager savings to clear his debt. Before that, his divorce lawyer cost Jett his savings and every spare dime.
He’d hoped Rites of Mars would earn a little bread-and-butter money, but his latest royalty statement indicated no such luck.
“I came in to show you this.” Renée dropped the card in her hand onto the desk. “Proof of the Roth Foundation Reception invitation.”
Jett leaned to read the Old English script. Another “You are cordially invited . . .”
The Roth Foundation Reception
Sunday, November 17, Six O’clock
New York College Presidential Residence
Black Tie
“They’re giving us the endowment?” The Roth Foundation had recently partnered with the college to create a school of literature in honor of their patron, Gordon Phipps Roth.
“They are.” She reached back to close Jett’s door. “Just between us, the reveal will be at the reception. With the endowment money, we’re adding a wing to Shehorn Hall. The Gordon Phipps Roth School of Literature.”
“The Gordon Phipps Roth . . . Really? Th-that’s amazing.” Please do not say this is predicated upon, or due in part to, the upcoming publication of my dissertation.
“Elijah Roth is eager to quell the fraud rumors that hound his great-great-grandfather. Between your publication”—there it was—“and their endowment plus a building to this prestigious liberal arts college, the reputation of a beacon in American literature will be redeemed.”
“Wow. I’m sure Dr. Hanover is . . . Wow.” He handed back the invitation. “I guess I’d better put those finishing touches on the book.”
It’d been four years since he joined the college as an associate professor. Four years to complete his research on the life and work of Gordon. Four years of peer reviews and revisions, aiming for academic publication.
The doubt started with an article in the Harvard Review challenging GPR’s authenticity. Renée asked him to look into it. His findings and publication could make him the leading authority on the great American author. Which would be such a win for the college.
Then Storm died and Lexa left. Publishing his dissertation contained no life or joy. So he abandoned the project and buried himself in an epic space-navy novel.
Two years later he was somewhat on the other side of things, though the nagging question remained. Was Gordon Phipps Roth a fraud? If his hero was a fraud, who would remain in his life to admire?
He’d tried to set a meeting with Tenley Roth, Gordon’s great-great-gran
ddaughter and distant cousin to Elijah, but she never answered Jett’s emails.
“Jett.” Renée leaned toward him. “I hired you because you are the new breed of literary minds. You were an outstanding grad student, and I wanted to bring you on faculty from the moment I heard you speak at the literary symposium. You have great literary instincts and a casual, inspiring manner with the students. You see the gems in modern literary voices.”
“Th-that’s quite a compliment from you.” Jett pushed away from the desk and sat forward with his arms on his thighs. He examined the thin threads of his Wise Old Professor sweater.
“I mean it. But I’ve been waiting four years for you to publish. It’s time. Especially with all the money on the line. You’ve found no footing with the fraud allegations, so let’s move forward.”
Now in her midfifties, Renée had been a trailblazer in the world of female literature professors in Ivy League schools. She was both compassionate and critical of “good ol’ boys” clubs and earned the respect of her peers and elders.
She sat on the Pulitzer Prize committee and was renowned for her insight and expertise.
“Face it, your genre novel, however good, is not going to win us any large endowments.” She reached for his book propped against the wall and thumbed through Rites of Mars’s 470 pages. “But you know how these things work, Jett. Politics. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. It’s how we earn the money, stay afloat. The foundation has requested your dissertation be published to, shall we say, silence any critics and prove to the world the great American realist author of the twentieth century is not a fraud.”
“No one can prove he’s a fraud.” He took the book from her and returned it to the bookshelf under the window. “If they could, they would have by now.”
The rumors of Gordon’s illegitimacy began about three years ago, when Tenley posthumously published a novel written by American heiress and British marchioness Birdie Ainsworth.
