Love Is a Canoe: A Novel

by Schrank, Ben

  Stella watched Emily. Focus! Whatever happened in Millerton didn’t matter—she had to get Emily to say that Peter had helped her and her husband. She just had to.

  Emily looked up. “All set. But let’s get our wine first.”

  Plaid Shirt gave them two different merlots to taste. They chose one and Emily thanked him. He smiled and rushed away from them to help others who had begun to settle in at the bar.

  “So you’re an editor?” Emily asked. She didn’t look at Stella.

  “I am. Most of the time.”

  “But you dabble in marketing?”

  “We have to, now.”

  “You do a lot of self-help, that sort of thing?”

  “Yes, it’s part of what I do. You do PR?”

  “You could call it that if you want to.”

  “What would you call it?”

  Emily said, “I’m a branding consultant.” And then she made a pained noise in her throat.

  “Right. I mean, I’m familiar with you, you know. I googled you. I know what you do.”

  “No doubt you did your due diligence.” Emily didn’t smile. “As best you could.”

  “Are you upset about something?” Stella asked, and then stopped and put her tongue between her teeth and bit down, hard. She tightened her scarf.

  “I’m glad you asked,” Emily said. “I feel an obligation to tell you what went wrong.”

  “Okay, great.” Stella sipped some wine and then let her tongue hang between her teeth so she would not interrupt.

  “Whose idea was the contest, anyway?” Emily asked.

  “That would be me,” Stella lisped.

  Emily looked at Stella and shook her head. Stella stared back at her. Emily was bigger than Stella. Even her eyes were bigger.

  Emily said, “I used to worry that I’d come up with something like this when I was starting out, like having people win something that was likely to fuck them, like a boat that they couldn’t possibly afford to maintain or learn to sail. But then I realized that I’d be okay, I would never do anything awful like that.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m saying,” said Emily, staring hard at Stella, “that I know where the lines are. The lines of manipulation. Where not to cross. You don’t.”

  “Can we back up a step?” Stella asked. “You’ll forgive me for being really confused right now.”

  “What happened is that it didn’t work.” Emily sipped her wine. “I love Marriage Is a Canoe. And I like Peter Herman. A lot. He’s a good man. But I don’t like what you did.”

  Stella pointed at her chest and widened her eyes. “What I did?”

  “The contest. How you made a sucker out of me. How quickly you did that.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You did. My marriage is over.”

  “Oh, god,” Stella said. She covered her mouth.

  “Have you ever met Peter Herman?”

  “Um,” Stella said. “No. Look, I’m so sorry. I had no idea—”

  “You don’t know me and you don’t know him and now you’re sorry? Doesn’t that strike you as rather disingenuous?”

  “Wait, wait. I’m going to trip all over myself. I apologize a thousand times in advance. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Don’t you think there’s a chance—I mean, you’re married and married people go through an awful lot—that there’s a good chance that everything will be fine?”

  “No.” Emily took two deep breaths. She said, “My marriage is over—I’m sorry to be dramatic about it with a stranger, which is what you are, but there it is.”

  “What happened?”

  “My husband. He cheats. He’s horrible. And you, you’re like a black widow spider and our marriage got caught up in the web of your nasty marketing game.”

  “Oh, no. I am so sorry,” Stella said. “But at the same time I don’t think you’re being totally fair to me.”

  Emily closed her eyes and began to cry. She said, “I still love that damn book.”

  Stella watched Emily take great bites of her inner cheeks. She reached over and patted Emily’s lower back, which felt hot and damp.

  “Don’t touch me!” Emily said. “It’s just that I believed it. I believed I could get married and be happy, just like the book says.”

  “Nobody—none of us wanted this.”

  Emily dropped her jaw and stared at Stella. She straightened her back, which revealed to Stella how crouched over the bar they had been. Stella sat up quickly, too, and banged her knees against the wooden bar.

  “None of us?” Emily asked.

  Stella only shook her head.

  “I bet we looked good, didn’t we? Eli and me? You found a picture of us on Guest of a Guest or Patrick McMullan’s site or somewhere like that? You had no idea what was going on with my marriage.”

  “We didn’t find you. You entered. You wrote Peter an e-mail.”

  “I should never have done that.” Emily finished her wine. “When I wrote it I thought everything would be okay. I knew how what I wrote might be used and I did it anyway. That was stupid. But you, you must’ve read thousands of those awful e-mails…”

  “Look, I don’t see why I’m to blame here. I’m not the one who fucked your husband.”

  “What?”

  “Please.” Stella closed her eyes and bent her head back down toward the bar. “I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to say that.”

  “You just did.”

  “I didn’t mean you any harm. I mean, am I really the one you’re mad at? I’m just an editor. I was told to look for new revenue from books on our backlist.”

  Emily looked at Stella and shook her head back and forth. She took her coat and bag from the dark recess under the bar.

  “And I like the book, too,” Stella said. “Not like you like it, but I think it’s fun. I enjoy reading it.”

  Stella suddenly understood that Emily had wanted to meet her so she could put a face to her pain. And, because Stella had been so perfectly tactless, the process had taken less than a single glass of wine.

  Emily stood three feet back from her stool. She said, “You were just doing your job. I’m leaving now.”

  “Will you at least tell me when you see Peter? Because maybe I should see him, too? I mean before the Thursday meeting at LRB.”

  “He’s a grown-up. If he wants to see you, he’ll let you know.”

  “You’ll come to our meeting?”

  “Yes, I think I will. Incredibly.” Emily’s nostrils flared. Stella had no idea what to do with herself. She sat perfectly still and admired Emily’s stature, her elegance, the way she stood and glared. Stella thought she wouldn’t mind being her in a few years. Though, if she were being honest she would never have entered the contest she had created.

  “I’ll go to your big meeting. I’ll go there and make sure whoever you report to shuts this contest down.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Stella said quickly.

  “I think I’m through doing what you want, unwittingly or not.”

  Stella watched Emily walk out. She turned back to the bar, to Plaid Shirt, who stood, arms folded, just four feet away. He uncrossed his arms and smiled.

  “She was upset,” he said. “Is she all right?”

  “No. I think she’s breaking up with her husband,” Stella said.

  “That’s awful.” He took Emily’s glass and dumped the last bit of wine in the sink behind the bar. He said, “Let me get you something else. I mean, that’s sad.”

  “Well, of course it’s sad,” Stella said.

  “No, it’s really sad. She looked really hurt. And she didn’t look like she deserved it.”

  “Wow,” Stella said. “You took all that away from looking at her.” She tried a laugh.

  “I was listening pretty carefully.” He smiled the same ironic smile she remembered from whenever she’d met him before. “Nothing hurts like having to deal with someone who cheats.”

  “It’s not my fault,” S
tella said.

  “Yeah,” the bartender said. “I think you told her that.”

  Stella didn’t say anything. She watched the bartender pour her a new glass of wine.

  “I made a big mess, didn’t I?” Stella asked.

  The bartender slid the glass across the bar and nodded. He said, “It would appear that way.”

  An hour later Stella was still at the bar. Usually, regardless of the situation she got herself into, she liked herself a whole lot more than she did right then. Because, no matter how she looked at it, she couldn’t figure out how to fix all the broken parts of what she had tried to build.

  She sipped her third glass of wine. She texted Emily and said she was glad they’d met and thanked her for coming. She said she was sorry, again.

  Keep me posted, won’t you? Stella texted. And then ten minutes later: You will keep me posted?

  Emily did not respond.

  “Want anything else?” the bartender asked.

  “Could you give me a menu? What’s that bacony smell? If I don’t eat something right now I’m going to be in even more trouble.”

  * * *

  The next day Stella found herself at the morning meeting with a headache and an upset stomach but without a single solution in her head.

  “I see we’ve got our Canoe update on the agenda,” Helena said as she pawed at the sheet in front of her. “Canoe girl? You here?”

  The room went into a pause while Helena searched for Stella, who was against the far wall in the back.

  Everybody could hear the swift whisper from Melissa Kerrigan: “It’s Stella who deals with Canoe. Stella Petrovic.”

  “I’m here!”

  “Stella Petrovic, you’ll stay after and we’ll talk.” And another pause. “Stella Petrovic. Hmm. What’s Petrovic, anyway? What kind of name is that? Polish?”

  “My father’s family is from Montenegro. His father changed it to Peterson, but my father changed it back.” A lot to say to over fifty people who don’t like you, Stella thought. But whatever, it was only one more thing to add to the list of things she hadn’t thought about before she said them.

  “What kind of work does your father do?” Helena called out.

  “He is a plumber.” Stella bit her lip. Last time she’d spoken to her dad he said he was spending a lot of time engineering fountains for a project at Duke, so close enough. Garden designer sounded foofy and Helena did not like foofy.

  “Really. A plumber who names his daughter Stella. Very sweet. There’s a book in there somewhere, that’s for sure. My father was from Poland and he sold life insurance policies to his poor Jewish neighbors in Boro Park for fifty years. Dropped dead at his desk with the signed renewal for someone else’s policy in his hands, and he always said that’s just what he wanted. When I was coming up I thought I had to hide my background but now I embrace it. So does my daughter. We are all working people here, aren’t we? Hardworking people.”

  “That’s right,” said Lucy Brodsky, vigorously nodding her head.

  Helena raised an eyebrow at Lucy and said, “Yes, we are. Okay, let’s get on with it. Do we have any general updates?”

  “Dust on the Mirrors, Blood on the Stairs won the PEN/ Faulkner,” an editor from Ladder & Rake Perpetuals said.

  “Is it ours?”

  “No, Knopf.”

  “Well, I’m not sure that’s an item, Fran, but good to know,” Helena said.

  The meeting went on. Stella didn’t zone out. But she didn’t pay attention either. She was trying to imagine what she could possibly say once she was alone with Helena. She could almost guarantee the next morning’s meeting. But not quite. And not quite was not a guarantee. And she had no idea how to keep Emily Babson from killing the contest. Fifty minutes could pass so quietly, Stella thought, like teardrops falling on carpet. She pictured innocent prisoners unable to sleep while the guilty snored happily in the next bunk. And she wondered which she was.

  “Are we done? I think we’re done,” Helena was saying.

  Stella stood up and made her way to the front of the table. She waited for the clutch there to dissipate. Some just stood near Helena and stared, not even aware of how obsessed they were. Lucy Brodsky signaled Stella to come forward.

  “Ah, Canoe,” Helena said. “Update me.”

  “Well,” Stella said. “It’s been an interesting week—”

  “Fine. I’ll do the update,” Helena said. “I heard from somebody that our man Peter is coming to New York. I know we’re scheduled for a sit-down tomorrow morning. We’ll do an hour-and-change and figure out how we can get the biggest bang for the bucket of cash we tossed at good old Canoe. But we’ll do it warm and nice. First, we’ll see what we’re dealing with. Got it? I hear your winners are losers.”

  “Yes,” Stella said. “May I ask where you heard that?”

  “No, you may not.” Helena stepped back and put her hand on her hip. Her gold chain did not sway. She said, “How do you think I got to be me? By not paying attention? By knowing less than the people who report to me?”

  And then Helena smiled. Stella took a deep breath. How confusing! She had never been so fascinated with someone who was so quantifiably mean to her. But Stella admired Helena’s eyes and the way she looked like she was angry at you because she loved you, and she expected you to be great. Helena was tantalizing.

  Helena said, “The meeting will take place in here. We’ll have Esme from publicity sit in the back. And an assistant from my group for note-taking. Lucy will do.”

  Stella smiled at Lucy and wondered what stupid thing she’d done to fall out of favor.

  “I’ll work up an agenda.” Stella took a step backward.

  “Let’s pretend you already have.”

  “Um, in fact there’s no need to pretend.”

  “I’ve turned bigger piles of bullshit into pots of tulips.” Helena spoke abruptly, her brown eyes smiling and warm and, in Stella’s estimation, betraying her strident tone. Helena liked her! She was sure of it. And then Stella was left to watch Helena’s heel twist as she swung around and walked quickly down a beige-painted hall hung with trophy covers, representing books that belonged to her more than anyone else.

  At least, Stella thought, they were wittier with each other than Helena seemed to be with others. But maybe everybody felt that way? Maybe that was the gift of leadership? No, Stella was sure that Helena took extra time to focus on her. So Stella had messed up a contest. Hadn’t she at least proved she was smart? Wasn’t smart valuable?

  As she drifted back to her elevator bank, Stella entertained a couple of thoughts: I really like Helena and she likes me. If I can just get through this, I can imagine how she might turn me into a confidante, a young friend who got to listen in on big decisions and who actually had a clue about what was going on in the company. Then she reminded herself of what Sara Byrd had said and wondered how to address the flirtation Helena must have had with Peter when they were kids.

  Wait!

  She realized that all she had to do was bring Peter to Helena and that would make Helena happy. Why would Helena care about a miserable couple from Brooklyn? She wouldn’t! She definitely wouldn’t listen to Emily, even if she did show up. And LRB wasted millions of dollars on poorly thought-out marketing all the time! What was the big deal? These last thoughts hit her the way morning thoughts do. Abruptly and with a subsequent coating of satisfaction. Peter was coming to New York. He was just like anybody—he was curious and he would come to a meeting that was, ultimately, about him and his book. Helena wanted to see him and Stella had made that happen. They’d already sold a bunch of copies of Canoe. Okay, those were a lot of thoughts run together. But really weren’t they just one big sizzling synapse of a thought that was utterly cohesive? Stella stepped into the elevator and smiled.

  She whispered, “You’re welcome, Helena.”

  Peter, November 2011

  Peter checked into the Algonquin because that was where Lucy Brodsky at Ladder & Rake had put him becau
se he had requested it. He liked the place, and when he visited New York, he tried to avoid deviating from what he already knew. He threw his bag on the bed in a room that faced an air shaft, thought about napping and didn’t, and went to read the newspapers in the lobby bar. By then it was late on Wednesday afternoon.

  He wanted to see Emily and set things right with her, to apologize at least. For causing the poor young woman any additional pain. Why did he have to be greedy when Stella had first called? Why couldn’t he have just moved with Maddie to California without involving himself in all this mess? He thought of Maddie. Maddie had considered going down to New York with him but was too busy packing up her house. He had promised to help out when he returned from New York. But had he subconsciously dissuaded Maddie? Was he really just curious about Helena?

  He settled himself in a chair in a corner near the windows and watched an old orange tabby sleep next to a potted palm.

  “Is that a new tabby?” he asked the waiter.

  “That is Matilda,” the waiter said. “What can I get you, sir?” The waiter threw a napkin down on the mahogany side table to his right and placed a brass carousel on it. He looked at the carousel’s half-full bowls of peanuts, minipretzels, and potato chips and thought, Hell, I’m on a trip. I’ll eat it all.

  “Give me a scotch and soda, please. Make it Johnnie Walker Black. I’m staying here at the hotel. Matilda, huh?”

  He pulled out his cell phone and looked inquiringly at the screen. He listened to a voice mail from Stella Petrovic who was asking that he please, please call when he arrived in town. She was so much looking forward to the next day’s morning meeting. Also Helena looked forward to seeing him. The whole message was jagged, in that tentative and calculated style of speech Stella used. He’d meant to come a day earlier and walk around, maybe visit the Met or the Frick, go to one of the places that Lisa used to like to go. But he’d ended up feeling hesitant to spend more time in New York than he had to, so he hadn’t driven himself to the train station until that morning.

  He clopped the phone closed. And then he toyed with the phone some more and saw that the message icon hadn’t gone away, that his daughter, Belinda, had left a message. He listened to her saying that she hoped he had had a smooth trip to New York and maybe he could visit on his way back, have dinner with her and her partner, Jancy?