Mind the Gap, Dash and Lily

by Rachel Cohn

  “So here he is!” the most famous literary editor in New York proclaimed in his high London accent. “The famous American grandson!”

  And I was so flustered that I replied, “Uncle SJB!”

  Before I could dissolve into a pool of mortification, he laughed and shook my hand.

  “I feel closer to Gemma than I do to most of my family, so that makes a certain amount of sense. We like to joke that we swapped lives, so I could take Manhattan and she could be the toast of London Town. Here, sit.”

  He gestured to a settee across from the armchair. I tried to set myself in the settee with maximum grace, but the settee was set against that and made me wobble when I would have preferred to casually recline.

  SJB launched into our interview as soon as his arm hit the armrest of the armchair. “So here’s the thing,” he said. “Gemma explained where you are, and I am sympathetic to your situation. I’m not sure if you knew my wayward nephew in your Oxford months, but a case such as yours recently hit our family, and I was decidedly a defender, not a member of the prosecution. If ever asked, I am sure to say that I was wooed away from this country—when in reality, it was much more like a prison break. Nothing against the old Queen, but she and I were never a good fit. And as such, I must give the great caveat to you sitting here with me: I am not a fan of riding on your old family name. Gemma’s recommendation got you in the door, but it will not get you anywhere else on its own accord. I owe her many, many times over, but I don’t owe anyone enough to compromise my professionalism. Is that understood?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. So now tell me—why are you here?”

  I could feel my heart racing, and couldn’t believe that he couldn’t feel it too. It was such a simple question. But there wasn’t a simple answer.

  I just had to start at the center of it.

  “I love books,” I said.

  I couldn’t stop there. It wasn’t enough.

  “I have always loved books,” I went on. “And I am sure with every ounce of my being that I will always love books. And I am in the rare and privileged position right now to be able to ask myself what I love, and to see if I can make a future that walks beside the things I love. I had thought, in going to Oxford, that what I wanted to do was study books, pin their pages to the bulletin board like a butterfly collector and analyze the patterns in their wings. But I realized—that wasn’t it. And while I feel extraordinarily satisfied when I find the right word for the right occasion, I don’t think my future lies in being an author. No. I don’t want to be the creator or the scientist. I want to be the shepherd, the person who knows books so well that he can help make books even better than they were when they came out of the author’s mind. Because, at heart, when I tell you I love books, what I am telling you is that I am a reader. Boil off all my pretensions, let my attempts at erudition rise away from me like steam, and what would be left would be a reader who is frequently amazed and educated by what words can do on a page. That’s why I’m here. Because I have never, ever met another person who felt the same way. And now, here you are, across from me. Which is, frankly, terrifying.”

  SJB leaned back in his chair and really looked at me for what felt like a terrifyingly long time but may have only been a second or two.

  Finally, he said, “Tell me about a book you’ve read lately that you think everyone should read. Don’t overthink it—first thought, best thought.”

  “There’s this book called Kent State by Deborah Wiles—have you read it?”

  He shook his head.

  “But you know about Kent State, right?”

  “Four American students killed by the National Guard in 1970, correct?”

  “Exactly. Before I graduated high school, my English teacher, Ms. Cameron-Ryan, gave me a list of books to read over the summer, and Kent State was at the top of it. It’s not really fiction and it’s not really nonfiction—it’s all of these voices telling the story of what happened, from all of these different vantage points. And the thing is, you know what happened. You know from the start that four students died. But even though you know where it’s going, as the book goes on, you fill with more and more despair, hoping it won’t happen. Because you realize that these four students died because of adults, because of a long tradition of American hostility and injustice. And they were my age, right? Some of them were just walking to class. And then their own armed forces, the people who were supposed to be protecting them, open fire. It’s devastating. And some of the National Guardsmen? They were the same age as the students. And you see how they were all trapped in that moment, and as a reader, you are trapped there with them. Which is what a great book does, right? It traps you into feeling something important. Whether it’s about yourself, or society, or ideally both. I think about it a lot, especially how they were my age, and became frozen in time. How wrong that is. You really need to read it.”

  “I will,” SJB said. “Maybe you can bring me a copy when you start.”

  “Start?”

  “Interning for me.”

  “Wait—that’s the whole interview?”

  SJB smiled again. “Absolutely. When you’re interviewing someone for an editorial position, those are really the only two questions you need to ask. When I’m in the office, I sometimes pad it with other questions to make Human Resources happy, but at the end of the day, if you have the right reason for being here and you know how to connect with a book and pass that connection on to someone else—that’s all I really need to know.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I mean, thank you. Thank you so much.”

  “So you’ll be back in New York after the holidays are over? I’m back the first full week of January. So maybe come in that Friday and we’ll figure out the days you can come each week?”

  I didn’t even have to think about it.

  “That sounds perfect,” I said.

  Because even though he was saying it as a question, it came across to me as an answer. I was going back to New York. I was going to start working as his intern. I doubted it was full-time, and I doubted it would pay a lot, if at all. But I would take on other jobs if I had to. I’d go back to living with my mom. I would see about transferring out of Oxford—to Columbia or anywhere else in New York that would take me.

  Lily and I would be in the same city again. We’d build our lives together. Which was the first step to building a life together.

  That felt right. It all felt right.

  SJB and I talked some more—him asking me about Gem and what I’d been up to in London, me asking him about what he was working on and what the family’s Christmas Eve plans were. Even though I had gotten the job (it seemed? right?), I still wanted to make a good impression. But my head was spinning so much that none of the words were really landing.

  Finally, SJB stood from his armchair and said he had to go do some last-minute gift wrapping. Which was a good thing, because one word finally landed: gifts.

  Somehow, with everything going on, I had forgotten to buy anyone Christmas gifts.

  SJB walked me out into the main hallway. Sir Ian was soon there, too, holding my coat. SJB told me he’d email Gem with all the details, including his assistant’s contact information, since she’d “set everything up.” Then he shook my hand again and went upstairs.

  Sir Ian raised an eyebrow. “By Jove, Salinger,” he said, “I think you got it.”

  “I did,” I said, not trying to hide the disbelief in my voice. “I really think I got it.”

  “I’d have to pull a Harry-and-Meghan and officially remove myself from this family in order to get an internship through him … so I can truly say it couldn’t have happened to a better gent.”

  “And what’ll you do?” I asked. “Assuming you’re not going back to Oxford.”

  “I think it would take a daemon to drag me back to Oxford. My fallback was to study the Knowledge full-time—you know, the test they give people who want to be London cabbies, proving they’ve gotten the whole city memoriz
ed. I don’t necessarily want to drive a cab, but I’d love to be able to say I passed the test. Or perhaps I might learn more at another university. In the meantime, I threw myself on the mercy of Foyles, and they were kind enough to install me in the home office. I may get myself into publishing yet. Just not through the family entrance.”

  “Hey,” I told him, “just be grateful that you have a family that treasures books. My mom likes them in theory but never has time to read them. And my dad is the guy who will only pick up a book if it has the word wealth in the title.”

  “I shiver at the thought.”

  “He cringes at me, I cringe at him—it’s a great relationship.”

  “If you can believe it, my father isn’t much better. But the rest of my family has its compensations.”

  “Yeah,” I said, thinking of Gem, “mine does, too.”

  Sir Ian offered my coat out to me. “I don’t mean to chase you off,” he said. “If you’d like to stay for some eggnog, I’m sure I could whip some up.”

  “No,” I replied, “I should be going. I have to buy some gifts before the shops close.”

  Sir Ian looked at his watch. “Cutting it close, surely?”

  I shrugged. “’Tis the season.”

  Sir Ian told me he’d no doubt wrangle a visit to New York at some point in the year, so hopefully our paths would cross again. I told him I’d like that.

  “Thanks,” I said. “For telling me to breathe. And for the other night.”

  “To be the right person at the right time for someone else is the highest service we can perform,” Sir Ian said with a bow. “Now go get some presents.”

  As soon as I was back on the street, I checked my phone. I only had a couple of hours to get my gifts. For Lily. For Gem. For my mom, who I’d be seeing sooner than she knew. Even one for Mrs. Basil E. I wanted them to be special. So special. Marking not just Christmas, but the start of the next chapter. The Oxford chapter had been a short one.

  But the next one?

  Already I felt it might last much longer.

  seventeen

  December 24th

  I had all the Christmas presents I’d ever need right in front of me.

  While Dash went for his interview, I stood in the middle of a dog run at a local rescue organization just outside Twickenham, in the company of a pack of dogs, all of them very good boys and girls. The dogs were getting their outdoor time before returning to their kennels, where they’d dream about their future furever homes. They were all mixes, but observing their dominant characteristics, I counted two Staffies, one beagle, four terriers, one shar-pei, one West Highland white terrier whom I’d specifically come to meet to potentially match with Gem, and one black whippet/ Labrador mix who had other ideas.

  “I think she likes you,” Jane Douglas said to me as a divine tall pup with a short black coat and a thick white stripe running from her neck to the top of her belly, and the sweetest and most soulful brown eyes, parked herself at my feet.

  I wanted to say, Well, pretty much all dogs like me, but I knew stone-faced Jane Douglas would not appreciate my playful American boasting. The other dogs ran rampant, chasing Frisbees and birds and each other, but this Whipador only wanted to press herself against my ankles. “What’s her name?” I asked.

  “Asta. She’s been here for over a year now, with no takers. She’s a good girl, but terribly shy. She doesn’t put on the ‘please like me’ show that gets dogs adopted the quickest.”

  “How old?”

  “We think about eight. She’s very smart, gentle, gets on with other dogs but doesn’t seek out their companionship. She’d probably do best in a home with no other pets. She’s a bit anxious, so she’ll need someone who’ll be patient with her, preferably someone who doesn’t work long hours away from the house. She’s the kind of dog who just wants a book and her human—whomever that may be. Who were you thinking?”

  “My boyfriend’s grandmother. She lives in London. She meets all those requirements—and she loves a good book, like her grandson.” Gem was totally Asta’s human. I could feel it in my cold winter bones and warm dog heart.

  I smiled, but Jane Douglas’s face remained stern. “I hope you weren’t thinking to give a dog as a Christmas gift.”

  “Never!” I was offended just by the suggestion. Pets needed time, love, and loads of attention to adapt to their new home environments. Christmas, with all its distractions, was the worst day of the year to make that connection. “I’m going to take some video of Asta and try to talk Gem—that’s my boyfriend’s grandmother—into coming to meet Asta after the holidays. Do you think Asta will still be here then?”

  “I could almost guarantee it. So, tell me, Lily. Have you decided if you’ll be joining us at PCFI next term? I have a waiting list of candidates eager to hear from me should you decide to give up your spot. The deadline for your decision isn’t for another two weeks, but if you know, you know.”

  I knew I wanted the kind of education PCFI could provide. But despite assuring my family I wouldn’t make a decision based on my boyfriend, the truth was, I couldn’t see myself at PCFI if Dash wasn’t also in England. And looking around at the dogs frolicking in the dog run, I grieved the idea of leaving my New York pack of dogs. At the same time, I loved the idea of immersing myself for a year in All Things Dog in my new favorite country across the pond.

  “I’m considering how I could make it work,” I said. How I could do it without my family disowning me, I thought. “I also have a dog crafts business. I’d have to figure out how to do that from here—like, getting materials, finding a work space for crafting, learning UK shipping rules.”

  “Problem solved,” said Jane Douglas. “You won’t have time for that during your year at PCFI. It’s a full-time commitment. You’ll either be studying or working here at the rescue center. In fact, I could use more volunteers right now. The Canine Supporters World Education Conference starts next week, and we need all hands on deck to prepare. Can I count you in?”

  But …

  “It’s Christmas Eve,” I reminded her.

  “I’m aware. And appalled by how many volunteers opted out of helping today and tomorrow. They call themselves dog people. Rubbish.”

  One of those volunteers who hadn’t dared take off on Christmas Eve approached Jane Douglas. “They need you inside,” he told her. “Catering decision.”

  “For the dogs or the humans?” she asked.

  “The humans.”

  “Nonsense,” she huffed, and returned indoors.

  “She’s a charmer, right?” said the volunteer, a twentysomething guy with a hipster beard. He peered more closely at me and then said, “You’re Lily, the dog-walker rock star!”

  “I’m Lily,” I affirmed. “Dog lover, not a rock star.”

  “I owe you a big thank-you,” he said, extending his hand for me to shake. “I’m Albert. I just graduated from PCFI.”

  I shook his hand. “You don’t need to thank me for that.” He laughed. “Good thing, because I worked my arse off the last year. No, I’m thanking you because I got a job through your referral.”

  “How’s that possible?” I was good with dogs, but I couldn’t magically provide employment to cynophilists, the fancy word for dog fanciers. My heart skipped a beat thinking how much Dash would like that word.

  Albert said, “That dog you helped on the set of The Thames of Our Lives?”

  “Daisy?”

  “Daisy! You gave the producer Jane Douglas’s number for a referral for a proper trainer. Jane referred me for the job. I can afford Christmas now!” Perhaps I was a little magical? Maybe some American boasting wasn’t unreasonable? Albert’s smile disappeared. “Except I’ll be working here on Christmas.”

  I said, “I’m sure there’ll be plenty of time to spend your earnings after Christmas. Plus, things will be on sale.”

  “I can afford my rent next month now. That’s Christmas present enough.” He noticed Asta at my feet. “I see you’ve made a friend.
And the toughest one of the bunch.”

  “I’m going to try to convince my boyfriend’s grandmother to adopt her after the holidays.”

  “I’ll do my best to make sure Asta remains available till then.” Albert crouched down to give Asta a good belly rub. “Are you Lily’s groupie?” he asked Asta. That did it. Asta and Gem, a former groupie, were clearly soul mates.

  I sat down on the ground to give Asta more attention as well. While I petted her, I asked Albert, “So what did you think of PCFI? I’m deciding whether to go.”

  “You won’t find a better program or teacher in the world,” said Albert. “But be prepared. Jane Douglas lives for dogs, and she expects her students to as well. She doesn’t have a partner and she doesn’t get on with her children, so all her attention is focused on her canine family. She lives and breathes dogs one hundred and ten percent of the time.”

  I understood better why my parents, and Dash, were concerned that my love for dogs bordered on too much. They wanted me to have more in my life.

  I thought of Gem asking Dash what he wanted to do—his heart’s answer. I asked mine the same. Its response was immediate and certain.

  Yes, I wanted to work with dogs—but not to the exclusion of my family, my love, and my other interests, like design and growing a business.

  Regardless of where Dash chose to be, I belonged in New York right now. I wanted to be near my family, in all their suffocating glory, and with my glorious dog, Boris, and my best-in-show dog-walking charges. I wanted to grow my business there. I wanted to go back to school to support all those things, but not leave Manhattan to do so.

  I probably knew all that from the second I discovered that the classroom was in Jane Douglas’s living room, but now I definitely knew. PCFI was not the place for me.

  I was ready to go home. My future was there.

  And so was Dash’s!

  Dash, Gem, and I celebrated at Gem’s house with a traditional British Christmas dinner a day early, as we’d all be flying back to New York early on Christmas morning. Thedining room was lit with candles and decorated with holly boughs. Stevie Wonder’s “Someday at Christmas” played from a speaker connected to a playlist on Gem’s phone.