by Liza Bennett
“You know Rita Davenport? She has that place between Huntington and here? She’s a weekender, an editor at Untenmeyer. Anyway, she took my new manuscript and drawings in to a friend of hers in their children’s division. A Marcia Rubenstein—I have her name and number written down right here.”
“But you probably should let her call you,” Meg advised.
“She did. Left a message yesterday afternoon when I was at the clinic with Fern. I didn’t even check the machine until late, though, because the girls were so crabby when we got back.”
“And? The message?” It was so typical of Lark to circumvent a subject, digress in half a dozen directions before finally getting to the point. Meg, whose daily existence was all snap decisions, focus, deadlines, often found herself leading Lark back to the subject at hand.
“Marcia said in her message that she thought I had a very unique style—lovely and kind of magical.”
“And she wants you to call her? That’s a good sign.”
“Actually, what she wants is … well, Untenmeyer wants to publish Wally of Wall Street.”
“Lark, that’s wonderful! Untenmeyer is one of the biggest publishers in the country. This is incredible. You must be thrilled. What did Ethan say?”
“I haven’t actually had a chance to tell him yet. He was so tired when he got back. And I didn’t want to steal his thunder after the show.”
Meg glanced at her watch. It was nine-fifteen. Meg thought of what Ethan had been doing while his wife waited up at home with her happy news. She could imagine Lark’s disappointment as Ethan begged off further conversation that morning and clomped up to bed. She could see Lark, sitting in the kitchen, watching the clock, wondering if it was too early to call Meg.
“I’m so proud of you,” Meg said. “Two successful artists in one family.”
“Yes … well, what I do is just…”
“Lovely and magical, I think she said.”
“I guess I should call this Marcia person back. She gave me her home number and said to get back to her as soon as possible. But it’s Saturday, so she probably doesn’t want to be bothered. Maybe I’ll just call her office and see if I can get her voice mail.”
“Lark—she gave you her home number for a reason. Call her. Go on. Right now, before the kids are up and running around screaming. Do it. And call me back later and tell me what she says.”
Meg was in the shower when she heard the phone ring again, but she decided to let it go. She would call Lark back after she dressed and made herself some coffee. She took her time, trying not to think about what happened the night before. She worked on keeping herself in the moment, focusing on the physical details around her.
Early autumn sun flooded her closet-size kitchen. She had a sliver of a view of the Hudson and the Palisades, a long shoulder of bright green, beyond. The sky was a brilliant blue with the kind of clouds that reminded Meg of the billowing sails of old schooners. If only she could put last night in such a ship and let it drift away. Finally she decided she could face hearing Lark’s voice again. She played back the message left earlier. It wasn’t her sister.
“Listen, I’m sorry. I—Meg—I don’t know what to say exactly. I’m calling you from the general store. I slipped out of the house. Couldn’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking about you. I just want you to know. I tried for so long to keep this from happening. Then last night—oh, baby—what am I going to do? Damn—” his voice dropped to a whisper. “Someone wants to use the phone. I’d better go. I’ll—what can I say?—I’ll be in touch.”
The teapot was whistling by the time the message ended, then it escalated into a piercing scream. Meg turned it off and was pouring water into the Melitta filter when the phone rang again, jarring her. She upset the cone, scattering grinds into all four gas burners.
“Meg? Are you there?”
“Yes … yes, hold on …” she said to the machine. “Hello?”
“Since when are you screening your calls?” Lark asked.
“I’m not,” she lied. “I spilled coffee all over the damned stove.”
“I just got off the phone with Marcia Rubenstein—she was so excited about the book, I could hardly believe it. She was going on about getting me an agent, contracts, multibook deals…”
“That’s wonderful.”
“She seems to think I have a special talent—‘that certain magical touch’ she called it—that children really respond to. And she discovered Isa Polidor—you know, the author of the Little Laurie books?”
“That’s just wonderful.”
“And those sell by the thousands, no millions. Marcia was saying that Isa and his wife just bought an island off Nova Scotia on his Little Laurie earnings. If you make it, I guess it can mean those kind of bucks—not that I’m expecting anything like that.”
“But it’s just great, really.”
“She wants me to come down to the city this Wednesday to meet with her and the editorial director. Me—coming down for a meeting at Untenmeyer! Lord, what will I wear?”
“You can borrow something of mine.”
“No, Ethan said I should buy something new.”
“So you told him? He knows?”
“Yes. He’s sitting here in the kitchen with me. Beaming like what—a proud husband, right?”
Meg heard his voice in the background, and then Lark started to laugh.
“Ethan says I look like a cat licking cream off my whiskers. Oh, Meggie—I’m just so happy. Somebody better make sure I’m attached to the ground.”
6
Wednesday was generally one of the busiest days at Hardwick and Associates. Most print ads closed on Thursday, and there was always a last-minute flurry of type changes and color correction. At midweek, clients were wondering where media schedules stood, when they would see the next round of layouts, how much they’d spent on broadcast in the last six months. The phone rang incessantly. There was a waiting line at the fax machine. Messengers clogged the reception area, their Walkmans blaring.
“Hardwick and Associates, could you hold please?”
Meg, calling from her cell phone in the back of a taxi, imagined the chaos at the front desk as Oliver fielded the various crises and calls.
“Yes? May I help you?”
“It’s me.”
“She lives, thank God. People have been asking. Hold a sec.”
The semimonthly marketing meeting at Eden Lingerie had run three times its typical hour. The launch for their new high-end evening pantyhose—shimmering shades of spandex silver and black—wasn’t doing as well as they’d hoped. They talked of discounting inventory. Pulling the ads. Revamping the campaign. Goosing the publicity. Cooking up a last-minute in-store promotion. And then, after considering every possible option, they decided on what Meg had known they would do in the first place: nothing.
“We’ll wait and see,” Hilary Unger, the sales director, said at eleven-forty-five. “With all the holiday traffic over the next month or so, we’ll get a better idea of where we really stand. Thanks for coming, Meg. Your input is terrific.” Meg’s role was essentially that of a therapist. She listened. Nodded from time to time. Pointed out that they’d already committed to a plan of action. Advised caution. Charged money.
“You have about ninety-two messages,” Oliver said. “I’ll give you the top ten for now.” He read off the names as Meg punched them into her laptop. “And your sister called. She can’t make lunch because her editor’s taking her out. Editor?”
Oliver prided himself on knowing Meg’s business—both professional and otherwise—as well as she did herself. A former Broadway chorus dancer who used to temp between shows, Oliver had been hired from an employment agency when Meg had first started her business and found that her one assistant was too busy taking phone calls to actually assist her. His career as a dancer had languished as Hardwick and Associates had flourished. The intervals between shows grew each year as Oliver’s time and importance at Hardwick expanded. When he’d pulled his Achi
lles tendon two years ago during a summer stock performance in the Berkshires, Meg offered him a full-time job as the office manager-receptionist with benefits until he recovered. She allowed him the fiction that someday he would return in glory to the stage, that his work at Hardwick was just another temporary stint. In the meantime, he ran the agency and her affairs with skill, grace, and élan—head erect, shoulders back, literally on his toes.
“She sold her new book to Untenmeyer.”
“That’s wonderful! She sounded totally breathless on the phone, no wonder. And Ethan called shortly after her. He was at a pay phone. I told him you’d be back by twelve-thirty at the latest.”
“Listen, if he calls again, tell him I’m swamped. I’ll call them both tonight.”
“Okay.” Meg could hear the question in his voice.
“I’ve got to totally revamp the SportsTech creative. Jen and Spencer were way off on their stuff. And the meeting is what? In two weeks?”
“You know as well as I do. I’ll get rid of Ethan for you if he phones back. But call Shirley right now—she sounded hysterical about getting into January Vogue.”
Meg made her calls from the backseat as the taxi inched through midday midtown traffic. By the time she reached Fortieth and Sixth, where Hardwick had its offices, she’d connected with almost everyone she’d needed to reach. She was paying the fare, opening the door, and gathering her briefcase and shoulder bag when a hand reached in to help her out.
“Hey.”
“Eth—” Her first reaction was one of revulsion. There he stood, hair flowing in the breeze, dressed in jeans and his worn leather bomber jacket as if he had nothing to be sorry about. Let along beg her forgiveness. He’d been drunk and behaved outrageously to her and then left that insinuating message on her machine. Though it had been nearly a week since his opening, he had done nothing to repair the damage he’d inflicted. Her second response was anger. How dare he show up at her agency without any warning—as though he actually thought she would want to see him there!
“Let me take that for you.” He held out his hand for her briefcase.
“I’m fine on my own, thanks,” she said, taking her change from the driver, and then stepping quickly out of the cab. She was astounded that he seemed so self-contained and unrepentant.
“Meg. We’ve got to talk.” It was impossible to read the expression behind the sunglasses he wore.
“No,” she replied firmly, pulling the strap of the bag up over her shoulder and stepping toward the building entrance. “Not another word until you apologize.”
“Okay,” Ethan threw up his hands dramatically and then fell to his knees on the pavement in front of her. The lunch-hour crowd streamed around them, and Meg heard one or two people start to laugh. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Ethan said, looking up at her through the concealing lenses.
“Get up this instant,” Meg said. “When did you start acting like an utter ass?”
“You have a bad effect on me,” Ethan replied, as he slowly got back on his feet. “I really am sorry, Meg, and I did come to make amends. But the moment I saw you, I just—”
“Please, don’t,” Meg cut him off when she heard the note of pleading enter his voice. “You’ve made your apology. I’m very busy right now, and I really don’t appreciate you showing up here like this.”
“Like what?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest.
“Like alone. Without Lark and the girls. I won’t have it.”
“You won’t, huh? And you are who? Goddess of the whole damn universe?” Ethan ran his hands through his hair with barely suppressed anger. “Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just … Meg, I’m going a little crazy here. Can’t you understand? Please, can’t we just sit someplace and talk quietly for a few minutes?”
The pleading was gone, replaced by what Meg heard as real pain and regret. They shared a long history together, Meg told herself, no matter how troubled and confusing the present seemed. If this had just been about Ethan, Meg might have sent him on his way. But Lark and the girls, no matter how unfairly, stood to be hurt by Ethan’s bizarre behavior. They went across the street and into Bryant Park. Meg sat down on a bench facing the manicured lawn. Ethan sat beside her, looking down at his hands. Beside them on the lawn, people from nearby offices were eating sack lunches, reading paperbacks, dozing in the sun.
“I guess I really shocked you the other night, didn’t I?” he said in a subdued voice.
“You know, I think it’s better if we just put that whole episode behind us. You were drunk. I can understand that. Things can get out of control—”
“No, Meg. That wasn’t it at all. Listen … I shouldn’t have waited. I should have faced this years ago.”
“What are you taking about?”
“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit! You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Meg had never heard such vehemence in his voice before; it frightened her.
“Ethan—”
“I’ve been in love with you for fourteen years. Don’t tell me you didn’t know—that you didn’t feel the same.”
Meg felt as though someone had punched her in the stomach, knocking the breath out of her. She stared at him. He couldn’t be serious. “No. Absolutely not.” she told him. “I don’t know what made you think that. It’s … it’s just not true.”
“Meg, please. It’s okay to admit it.” Ethan said, turning to her. He’d slipped off his glasses and Meg noticed that his usually clear blue eyes were threaded with red. “I’ve been thinking about this almost nonstop. What we have—what draws us together so powerfully—it’s really out of our control. I’ve been trying to deny it for so many years. Then, the other, night—it just felt so right.”
“Actually, Ethan, nothing ever felt more wrong to me in my entire life.” Meg felt tainted just having to explain this to him.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, you’d better, damn it,” Meg said, angry that there was even a shadow of a doubt in his mind about how she felt.
“All these years, when you’ve been hanging around my family. All these years when you’ve been unable to find the right person … Haven’t you wondered why?” Ethan’s tone was persuasively sincere. She found herself listening, though she knew she should already have gotten up and walked away.
“Don’t you wonder why you never seem able to make a relationship work?” he continued slowly, sensing that he’d gotten her attention at last. “Why you pick men who are wrong for you—wired to backfire within a short time? I’ve been watching you play out these charades of love affairs for years. These so-called successful men—brokers, lawyers, bankers—whom you start out admiring, proceed to dominate, and end up despising. You’ve never been in love, Meg.”
“How dare you—”
“You’ve never found a real partner. Someone who would stand up to you. Who refused to be controlled. Each time I see you repeat one of these ridiculous cycles, I become more convinced of what the problem is. You don’t want to find the right person because, deep down, you know you already have.”
“Oh, please—what self-serving—”
“Listen, to me, baby.” His hand was at the back of her neck. He gathered a fistful of her hair. “This is about us. Not me. Us. It’s real. I know you can feel it. We’ve got to work this out.”
“Let go of me. Or I’ll scream. I mean it.” He released his grasp, and Meg moved away from him on the bench. “The only thing we have between us is you acting like a fool. And a bastard. Do you have any idea how deeply Lark would be hurt—she’d be just ripped apart—if she knew what you were saying to me right now.”
“Of course, I know.” Ethan looked up at her without remorse. “Why in the world do you think I’ve waited so long, why I’ve denied these feelings, tried to block them out? I know how badly Lark would feel—if she knew. But what about me, Meg? Do you have any idea what I’m going through this minute? The utter hell of it?”
“No, I don�
�t understand,” she replied, unable to feel anything but disgust. “And honestly, I don’t want to. Somehow you’ve confused my caring about you as a brother—a brother-in-law—with something very different. And—believe me, Ethan—you’re dead wrong. You’ve meant a great deal to me—as Lark’s husband, as a great father to my nieces. I’ve admired your marriage. I love your daughters, you know that. I’ve felt lucky just being a part of your family. This … this fixation of yours, Ethan, it puts all of that in jeopardy. Everything we’ve shared. Please … let’s not ever talk about it again.”
Ethan said nothing and Meg gradually became aware again of the world around them: the grinding roar of traffic up Sixth Avenue, the distant wail of a fire engine, the rustle of sycamore leaves as the wind gusted east. When Ethan lifted his head to look at her, she saw tears in his eyes.
“Whatever you say,” Ethan told her softly. “Whatever you think is right … But I’ve got to tell you that what you’re asking—I just can’t promise that I can do it. Don’t you see, Meg? You’ve become a part of me. Like blood. Like breathing—”
“Ethan, I’m going now. I can’t hear any more of this. You know what you have to do.”
Juggling her briefcase and shoulder bag, she started to walk away, even though he kept talking, almost as much to himself as to Meg. “You’ve been my inspiration. My secret fire. You’re asking me to put that out…”
7
The Taconic Parkway in autumn was, to Meg’s mind, one of the most beautiful highways in the country. Winding up through the Hudson Valley, with the blue-tinged Catskills to the west and the foothills of the Berkshires to the east, its graceful curves and long valleys retraced the path of glaciers. The Columbus Day weekend fell at the very peak of autumnal color, and the hills were a dazzling wash of oranges, reds, and golds ablaze against a thickening gray sky. It was unseasonably warm for that time of year, and the forecast promised a series of powerful thunderstorms. Meg had the passenger window halfway down, the wind whipping at her hair.
