by Erin McRae
“You should look into that,” Harry said.
“The Mayflower?”
“Your family history. You never know what you’ll turn up,” he said too casually. Clearly, whatever was on his mind, he wasn’t going to share. “Have you ever been there?” Harry asked.
“Where?”
“Brittany.”
Eliza shook her head. “We’ve always been a Paris sort of family.” She was aware, as she said it, of how appalling she sounded. But she was a member of a family who still, in many ways, existed in the privileges of another time. Such an existence was beautiful and terrible, and she didn’t always know what to make of it.
“It’s an interesting place,” Harry said as if their lives and the way in which they were conversing with each other were perfectly normal. “I’ve a book on it due out in some lifetime,” he went on. “As a matter of fact, I’ve got to deal with my editor about some supposedly last points as soon as I get back home. I’m dreading every second of it.”
“You’re an editor who doesn’t like being edited,” Eliza said, charmed by the implied self-hatred.
He leaned forward as if to share a secret. “Terrible, isn’t it?”
Suddenly, Eliza wanted to be generous with him, although she didn’t know why. “I’ll tell you what,” she said. “I was going to hold out on you, but please, call me Eliza. And I’ll try to remember not to call you Harold.”
AFTER THAT STRANGE, and oddly lovely, breakfast, Eliza didn’t speak to Harry for the rest of the book fair except for the most cursory business. She would have suspected that they were avoiding each other after the odd intimacy of their swim and morning together, except that Harry was always there, lingering at her periphery.
She would see him out of the corner of her eye on the show floor, wearing one of his too-smart suits like armor as he made small talk. Or spot the back of his head three tables over at a big dinner to honor this or that publishing luminary. Each time she considered going over to say hello – his observations about the industry and their unsettling interaction would probably be more entertaining than the usual polite patter – but decided against it.
Harry’s insistence that he knew her from somewhere disconcerted her. Eliza was not in the habit of believing men just because they were so very sure of something. But Harry’s belief was so earnest, almost innocent, that Eliza struggled to dismiss him easily. Had they met before and had Eliza simply forgotten? Surely not. Harry was too well and eccentrically dressed, too peculiar a conversationalist, and too handsome for that. But he was so certain....
Eliza didn’t know if she liked being someone else’s mystery. She did know she was more annoyed than pleased that she and Harry were seated next to each other on the flight back to New York. To her relief, Harry left her alone with her thoughts as the plane sat at the gate and taxied toward the runway. Only once they were in the air and Eliza pulled a book out of the bag she’d stashed under the seat, did Harry speak.
He looked up from his own book, also clearly a book fair acquisition, despite how fretfully dog-eared it already was. “Oh! That one,” he said. “I tried to get my hands on it but they were all gone by the time I got there.”
“Mm. Me too,” Eliza said absently as her eyes skimmed over the first few sentences.
“And yet....”
She looked up at him. “And yet, I went through all the effort to get this book and now you’re interrupting my attempt to read it.”
“Oh. My apologies.”
Eliza went back to the pages, but she could feel Harry’s gaze on her. He was restraining himself from asking how she’d gotten her hands on it. She could feel it.
She turned the page. “Being a pretty girl at a book fair means I can sometimes get things other people can’t.”
“Did you flirt with some poor sap until he surrendered it?” Harry asked.
Eliza was uncertain how he could take her terse words and focus on the page as an invitation to continue the discussion, but there it was. “No. I flirted until some poor sap was distracted enough that I could steal it.”
She looked over the top of the book at Harry.
He looked like he was trying not to laugh. “You didn’t.”
“Oh yes I did.” She smirked and held his gaze, but he didn’t look away. Neither, then, would she. “If you want to read it when I’m done, you’re welcome to borrow it.”
“You’ll hardly finish it before the flight ends.”
“We work together. Presumably you will be able to find my office.”
“Point,” Harry conceded.
“Or I could read aloud to you.” She was playing with him now in a manner she recognized was both slightly cruel and far more enticing than was appropriate. Because Harry looked tempted. She hoped he wasn’t going to take her up on her offer. He was amusing, yes, but spending an extended period of time trying to speak over the dull background roar of the engines in the too-dry air seemed dreadful.
“Perhaps a raincheck,” he said after a moment of consideration.
Eliza exhaled gratitude into the already stale cabin air.
ONCE SHE’D FINISHED several chapters, the activity of the last several days caught up to her, and Eliza desperately wanted a nap. As she set her book in her lap, leaned back, and closed her eyes, she was suddenly aware of Harry. Not the sound of him shifting in his seat or the warmth of him so close to her. But rather the very idea of him existing in the world, as if, with her eyes closed, she could see him – and his strange amusement with her – better than she could with her eyes open.
Eventually, in hopes of convincing herself she was wrong, she opened her eyes and turned toward him. Harry was watching her, a little smile on his face.
“Do you want this?” she asked, holding up the book she had confessed to stealing. She was warm and drowsy and – so strange for being on a plane – comfortable. She couldn’t have named the impulse that led her to offer Harry the book, but whatever it was, it felt natural and right.
“What?” Harry startled slightly as if he’d been somewhere very far away.
“You were staring. Do you want this book?” Eliza said, more slowly. Perhaps Harry was feeling the same odd comfort that she was.
With other men – and Eliza had been hit on by plenty of men his age – his staring would have felt rude. Invasive. Proprietary. But as when they had met at the pool, he was simply looking with an abstract curiosity.
He held out a hand, and Eliza pressed the book into it. Then she leaned back and closed her eyes again. Within moments she was asleep, the sound of Harry turning pages soft in her ears.
WHEN SHE WOKE HOURS later, it was to the announcement that the plane was beginning its descent into JFK. Groggily, she reached for the orange that had been left on her tray table during a food service she had apparently slept through. She dug her thumbs into the rind to split it open before gratefully popping sections of it into her mouth. She was so dehydrated.
When she finished, she wiped her hands as daintily as she could and returned her seat into the upright position before a flight attendant came to nag.
“You’ll want this,” Harry said, startling her. He handed her the book she had given him earlier.
There was a piece of paper sticking out of the top of it, and Eliza’s heart sank. Surely, this was Harry’s way of slipping her his phone number. Except when she flipped to it, so she could express her displeasure at the implied proposition, the words died in her mouth. It was only a customs form, with Eliza’s name and itinerary already filled out.
“I didn’t know if you’d gone shopping or any of your other details, so I left those parts blank.” Harry handed her a pen as well, as if filling out customs paperwork for colleagues was a completely ordinary thing to do. “Oh, and I didn’t forge your signature.”
The pen was warm from Harry’s fingers. “You’re an odd man,” she said blearily, feeling relieved and, strangely, very grateful. “Thank you.”
Chapter 3
The Cur
se of the Supermarket Sauce King
Harry
TWENTY HOURS AFTER landing in New York, Harry wished he was still enjoying the debatable pleasures of the Frankfurt Book Fair. He was on a conference call with his least favorite celebrity chef about his latest book that had already gone thirty minutes longer than scheduled, emails were piling up in his inbox, and he needed to finalize plans to visit Steven in Connecticut. The ever-faithful Jonathan was perched in a chair across from Harry’s desk, notepad on his knee. Ostensibly he was there to take notes but really, as they both knew, he was providing moral support for Harry in this trying time.
And Philippe was always trying. Mainly because he knew the sales of his cookbooks kept the lights on, and he was so damn smug about it. Harry often wondered why Philippe didn’t flee to a larger house, but suspected he – like all of them – enjoyed the pain of the familiar and being the biggest fish in a decidedly medium-sized pond. But that still didn’t mean Harry was going to send him on a cross-country tour with a branded food truck.
“Look, Philippe, I appreciate where you’re coming from. And I agree the food truck phenomenon is a great way to further expand the audience for traditional French cooking! But if you want to do that, you’re going to need to drive the thing yourself because we are not dealing with a truck, supplies, permits, and business class airfare for you while I make my lovely assistant relive the very worst of his college days on a road trip from hell.”
“At least I’m lovely,” Jonathan muttered to himself.
Harry scowled at him. They were on speakerphone!
“But Harry...Harold – do you mind if I call you that?” Philippe asked in his cloying, and conspicuously fake, French accent. Making the H- in his name silent did not a native French speaker make.
“Yes!” Harry said. “Yes, I mind!” Why does everyone want to call me Harold lately? What god have I angered?
“But, Harry, I think this can expand an interest in my back list.”
Harry sighed. “I don’t think you’re wrong, but it’s still not happening. Talk to your sauce distributor. Talk to reality TV. If we can get some partnerships going we’re happy to be on board and we’ll revisit it.”
After too many au revoirs, Harry ended the call with more enthusiasm than was strictly professional.
“Promise me you will not send me on that tour,” Jonathan said sternly.
“It’ll never happen,” Harry assured him. “You know he’s actually an Italian guy from Queens, right?”
Before Jonathan could answer there was a knock at the door. Harry looked at his assistant quizzically; was anyone expected? The younger man shook his head.
“Come in,” Harry called. He was tempted to leave whoever it was in the hallway cooling their heels, but Jonathan tended not to approve of Harry exercising his petulance in such a way.
When the door opened, Harry had to choke back a noise of dismay. It was Eliza. Who Harry had watched sleep for an hour on a plane somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean until he, too, had given into the warm temptation of unconsciousness.
He still couldn’t figure out where he knew her from.
Today she wore a dark blue dress sheath dress that placed her somewhere between a CEO’s wife and a 1950s pinup. She’d traded her pearls for a fine gold chain that glinted softly in the light from Harry’s desk lamp. There was a small pendant in the shape of a cresting wave dangling from it, and it hung slightly askew. Harry wanted desperately to reach up and set it to rights, but neither the gesture nor the thought was remotely appropriate. What does her skin feel like, there at the hollow of her throat?
Harry started, visibly he was sure, appalled at the thought and his own inability to shake off whatever it was about Eliza that captivated him so. Jonathan, still sitting across from him, gave a stern look that conveyed just how much Harry needed to pull himself together.
“Can I help you?” He had to say something, but his voice sounded strangled.
“I hope so. Do you mind if I sit down?”
“Not at all,” Harry said, his manners kicking in so strongly he was tempted to stand and pull the chair out for her. He gripped the edge of his own seat to stop himself. He strongly suspected his life would be much simpler if Eliza turned around and walked out of his office forever.
“Thanks.” Eliza sat down on the edge of the chair next to Jonathan’s, her ankles neatly crossed and tucked under the seat. “So, I’ve been brought in to revamp your digital presence.”
“Yes, we’ve covered that.”
Eliza pursed her lips. “I’m going to all of the division heads, of which you are one, and asking each of them to give me an author to be a case study for digital innovation.”
“Meaning?” Harry asked.
“Meaning I need data to work my magic, and I need to provide the powers that be data so they can help keep this company afloat. The easiest way to achieve that is you giving me a name. Preferably one with some clout.” She tapped her finger impatiently on the screen of the tablet she carried.
“Philippe,” Harry said without a second thought.
Jonathan looked alarmed. Harry didn’t care. He was tired, Philippe needed attention, his own behavior with Eliza in Frankfurt had embarrassed him, and her mandate annoyed him.
“What’s his last name?” Eliza asked, typing on her tablet.
“He doesn’t use one professionally.”
“Wait.” Eliza frowned, a fine, barely discernible crease appearing between her eyebrows. She’s so young. “Philippe, the supermarket sauce guy?”
Harry nodded.
“Really?” Eliza looked dubious.
Harry couldn’t blame her. He forged ahead anyway. “Well, it’s him or the author with the world’s most successful line of do-it-yourself extreme dog grooming books.”
“The world’s most – you know what, never mind. All right.” Eliza glanced down at her tablet. Harry wondered if she was regretting coming into his office. “You think he’ll be game?”
Harry smiled with his teeth. “I’m sure he’ll be delighted.”
“Excellent, then. Thank you.” Eliza stood again, the fabric of her dress – was it silk? It had the sheen of silk – rustling softly as she did. “I’ll let you know how things go.”
Once she had left, closing the office door gently behind her, Jonathan looked at Harry. Consternation was plain in every feature.
“What have you done?” His voice was barely above a whisper, his eyes wide.
“Given Elizabeth what she wanted. Given Philippe what he wanted.”
“This will blow up,” Jonathan said seriously, knitting his fingers together. “Probably in your face.”
“You mean hopefully, don’t you?” Harry teased.
“I might, yes! Until it all goes south and you panic and I have to clean it up.” He uncrossed and re-crossed his legs, the fashionable lines of his slim-cut suit trousers showing off purple-and-red striped socks.
Harry tsked. “Jonathan. When it goes south at least we won’t be left with a pack of angry poodles clipped, dyed, and styled to look like giraffes.”
“How is this my life?” Jonathan lamented. “How is it yours, for that matter? You have books out. Money. Some of Manhattan’s best real estate. And yet....”
“I ask myself this every day with what is, I assure you, an appropriate level of despair,” Harry acknowledged. “But now everyone gets to feel useful and important. And I can fuck off to the wilds of Connecticut for the weekend.”
“That’s your way of asking me to look up the Metro North schedule again, isn’t it?”
Harry nodded morosely, hoping he looked suitably pitiful. If he didn’t now, he knew he would when he returned to the office on Monday, more travel-weary than ever and sad besides. All he wanted was to spend more than two nights in a row in his own bed in his own house. He might have generally slept alone, but his eighteen hundred thread count sheets couldn’t be beat.
Eliza
SPENDING THE NIGHT after her return from Fran
kfurt in a hotel and moving into her new apartment the evening after her first real day at the office was not Eliza’s ideal plan. However, the horrors of conference scheduling and the vagaries of the New York rental market had given her extremely limited options. Which meant sending emails to all the authors the department heads had given her introducing herself and asking for meetings and then fleeing to her new neighborhood to get settled.
Her sister Marianne met her outside the building, her Lexus Crossover parked illegally and full of everything Eliza had thought she’d need for the next year. The apartment that came with her job was fully furnished, so at least she didn’t have to worry about that. But she still needed clothes and makeup and books and bedding, not necessarily in that order.
“I could have had that stuff shipped,” Eliza said as Marianne stepped out of the car to hug her.
Despite the fact that they shared the same parents, they didn’t look much alike; Marianne, like Eliza, was tall, but where Eliza’s hair was a rich chestnut Marianne’s hair was golden blonde, her eyes honey-brown to Eliza’s grey. Marianne’s features – small, appropriate, and gentle, resembled their mother, but Eliza with her strong chin, certain nose, and broad forehead looked like one of their great-great-grandmothers who no one remembered except for photographs.
“And a hello to you too,” Marianne said, giving Eliza one last squeeze before she stepped back on the sidewalk and looked her up and down. “How was Frankfurt? And Wales? Did you meet any dashing booksellers?”
“I’m engaged,” Eliza said automatically and perhaps too quickly. Which was nonsense, as she had not met any dashing booksellers in Wales. Just an odd middle-aged editor and travel writer in Frankfurt. And she was very much engaged.
“Last I checked, that does not create a bubble around you that magically fends off attractive book people.”
