“So, Cliff,” Sam said, sitting back in his chair, “why don’t you explain to me exactly what a textile designer does.”
“Well, I’m a chemical engineer by training, Mr. Wyatt.”
“Oh, a chemical engineer,” Harriet repeated approvingly, raising her eyebrows.
“He went to MIT,” Althea added.
“I work in a lab to create new fibers. For different manufacturers.”
“He just created something for Ralph Lauren,” Althea said.
“Good for you,” Sam said, although it still sounded a little poofy to him. He turned at the sound of the tumblers in the front door.
“That will be Samantha,” Harriet said, jumping up and going to the foyer.
“Hooray, food,” Althea said, standing up.
“Oh, hi, Rosanne,” Sam heard Harriet say in the hall.
“Rosanne?” Sam said, glancing at Althea. “What’s Rosanne doing here?”
“I think Mom invited her to dinner.” Althea balanced her empty glass on the hors d’oeuvres tray and picked it up. “But she was going with Jason and Mrs. Goldblum over to the Stewarts’.” Cliff stood to pick up the other glasses and soiled cocktail napkins. “Rosanne was my babysitter way back when, Cliff, so be warned, if you don’t mind your p’s and q’s at the dinner table she might pinch you.”
Harriet reappeared in the living room and by her expression Sam knew something was wrong. “What’s wrong? Where’s Samantha?”
“She went to her room. She’s not feeling very well.” She turned to Cliff. “I hate to do this to you,” she began.
“But it would be better if I left. Of course, I understand.”
“Fix Cliff a plate to take with him,” Harriet said.
“No way, I’m taking him to Captain Cook’s,” Althea said. “After making him sit here half the night the least I can do is give him dinner.”
“No, Althea.” The tone of Harriet’s voice got everyone’s attention. She added, in a quieter voice, “I wish you would stay. I think your sister would want you here.”
A feeling of foreboding flooded through Sam and wordlessly he headed for Samantha’s bedroom.
“Sam, wait—”
Rosanne was standing next to three suitcases outside Samantha’s room.
“A lot of baggage for three days,” Sam observed.
“Mr. W,” Rosanne said, “we need to talk for a sec.”
Sam went to the door and found it locked. He knocked. “Samantha? This is your father. Open this door.”
“If I could just talk to you for one minute,” Rosanne pleaded.
“Oh, Rosanne!” Sam heard his daughter wail from behind the door. “What’s the use?” The handle turned and the door swung open.
“Samantha, what is it?” Sam asked, wincing as he looked at his daughter’s tearstained face. And then he looked down, between the parted sides of her coat. When he brought his eyes back up his daughter’s expression confirmed it. Samantha was pregnant.
7
Howard Stewart
HE KEPT PUTTING off telling Amanda about it and now he was running out of time. Christmas would just about finish him financially.
The deals he thought would set things right at the agency had never materialized. Instead, his number one associate announced she was moving to another agency and was taking two of Hillings & Stewart’s biggest writers with her. To be fair, Howard had assigned these two midlist authors (writers who sold consistently well but never quite seemed to make a bestseller list) to her because they were taking up so much of his time. The associate placed them at new publishing houses where first one and then the other popped onto the bestseller lists. Now the income from huge new contracts for these two writers was gone with his former associate.
And then there was the death of Gertrude Bristol, the international bestselling romance-suspense writer Howard had edited at Gardiner & Grayson who had become his founding client. Year in and year out for eight years Howard had received a Bristol novel to sell to publishers in twenty-one countries, to Reader’s Digest Condensed Book Club, to audio publishers and to movie and TV producers.
Gertrude had been ninety-three when she died so it wasn’t as if her passing had come as a great shock, but what happened after did. It was not unusual for the longtime publisher of a bestselling writer to enlist a ghost writer to keep writing books under the name of the deceased writer. It was a marketing thing, where the author as a brand name promised to deliver a certain kind of book. Everyone fromV. C. Andrews to L. Ron Hubbard had been writing from the grave for years, and Gertrude Bristol was the kind of traditional “cozy” novelist who had written so many books for so many years that more than one excellent writer could emulate her style. Howard found the right writer, the publishing house was ecstatic and ready to go, and then—
The niece, Gertrude’s literary executor, said, “No.”
Of course, since the niece had inherited some twenty-six million dollars and the rights to forty-seven novels, what did she care about money? What was important to her, she wrote Howard, was that her dear aunt’s work remain her own.
Howard understood the niece’s sentiments but he also knew this decision put his agency in bad straits. His accountant had been warning him since he bought out the distinguished Hillings & Hillings Literary Agency to form Hillings & Stewart that Howard was operating on a very slim margin for error. Howard did not let the people go from Hillings & Hillings that the accountant advised him to; Howard had gone ahead with what was considered the Cadillac of health insurance plans; and Howard also instituted a retirement plan the accountant warned could come back to haunt him if any of his young employees ever got serious about saving. Yes, the accountant admitted, Howard could comfortably meet these obligations now. But what if something happened and costs went up and income came down? What then?
And then 9/11. Besides the psychological fallout from the tragedy, property taxes skyrocketed and so did the rents on midtown office buildings. Insurance premiums of all kinds went through the roof. And then there was the fact that it took months for the book publishing industry to return to any sense of normalcy. And God help any author whose book had been published in the interim. A techno-thriller about terrorists Howard represented had had a first printing of four hundred thousand copies coming out in November. Because of its subject matter the publisher delayed publication by ten months, at which time it sold barely thirty-five thousand copies.
Howard’s children had been badly frightened and so he had not even hesitated about buying the house in Woodbury. At the time he qualified for a good mortgage rate and he wanted his family safe. The house, in turn, started a slew of new expenses and it was not long before Howard was taking a lot more money out of the agency than the agency receipts could support.
By last year Howard knew he had to do something so he had put out a feeler with Henry Hillings about the possibility one of his grandchildren might be interested in learning the business. The old man instantly got fired up about the idea because he had one grandson, he said, “Who’s just the ticket,” and it was not long before a lawyer called Howard to express Henry’s interest in buying his grandson into the agency as a partner. A partial cash-flow solution seemed to be near. But when it came time to show the agency books, Howard put it off because the agency at that moment was out over two hundred thousand dollars on a credit line with a bank that was failing. That’s when he had hustled to get the Gertrude Bristol deal going and got shot down.
Subsequent meetings with his accountant did not go well. If Howard wanted the agency books to look good, he was told, he had to pay off the credit line, lay off at least three employees, sublet one of the offices and make his employees pay at least thirty percent of their health care premiums. Also, if he didn’t want trouble with the IRS, he needed an extra hundred thousand to set things right. His finances, the accountant told him, were now officially a secret disaster.
Howard took out a second mortgage on the Woodbury property (bringing up the perc
entage he owed to one hundred and twenty-five percent), paid the IRS, paid off the agency credit lines and balanced the books. The accountant only shook his head, saying it was no good to put personal property at risk when the agency had been incorporated expressly to shield his family. Why did Howard do it?
Howard did it because Howard couldn’t stand the idea that Henry Hillings would think he had sold his distinguished literary agency to a loser. In Howard’s eyes it was a far better thing to be in a temporary personal financial bind than for even a hint of tarnish to appear on the Hillings & Stewart name.
He had told Amanda none of this because this was the one area—money—he had sworn to her she would never have to worry about on his end. He had learned his lesson with his first wife; Howard would make his own money. Amanda owned the Riverside Drive apartment free and clear and she also had a generous trust fund, the revenue from which they could rely on. Amanda didn’t care how much money Howard made; she only cared that Howard did not drift into the financially carefree attitude he had developed in his first marriage. That was why he had been so excited about buying the Woodbury property. He was buying a beautiful home for his family; it was the money he had earned that would keep his family safe.
Amanda’s reaction to the house had been everything Howard had hoped for. Her jaw dropped in disbelief and then she had burst into tears, telling him she couldn’t believe it, how much he had achieved in such a short period of time, and how she and Emily and Teddy (for Grace had not yet even been imagined) were the luckiest people on the face of the earth.
“Howard,” his mother said.
Howard blinked and then looked across the living room. His mother was driving him crazy tonight, talking about what a wonderful husband and provider Howard’s father had been—even if he hadn’t gone to college like Howard and hadn’t had fancy friends. She was just declaring there was no shame in a man working with his hands when the phone rang.
“I’m proud of Dad, too, Mom,” Howard said, jumping up to answer the phone.
“I’m over here at Captain Cook’s if you still feel like having that beer,” the insurance salesman aspiring to be a novelist told Howard.
“I’m glad you called,” Howard said, trying to put on an act of grave concern for his mother’s benefit. This would be his only chance to get out of here for a while. “I got an e-mail this morning from Australia I’d like to discuss with you. So don’t move, I’ll be there shortly. I’m sorry, Mom,” Howard said, hanging up the phone, “but I’m afraid I have to go out.”
When Howard saw Celia behind the bar at Captain Cook’s he thought, How weird is that? Amanda had just asked him about Celia today and now here he was walking in like the regular he wasn’t.
“How are you?” Howard greeted the insurance salesman who was sitting at the bar, shaking his hand and giving him a pat on the shoulder.
“Nervous as hell,” the insurance salesman said, tossing back what smelled like whiskey.
Celia came over to their side of the bar. “He’s worried he’s going to have to sell insurance for the rest of his life,” she told Howard.
“Hi, Celia.”
“Hi.”
“And he’s scared you’re going to give up on him,” a strange woman with a lot of makeup said from the corner of the bar.
“He’s been hitting it pretty hard,” another customer explained.
“A Beck’s, please, Celia, thank you,” Howard said, sliding onto a stool. He looked at the writer. “I don’t know about your career in insurance, but I did get an offer from an Australian publisher for UK rights on your novel. It’s a modest offer, but you’ll be published in Australia, England, Ireland—”
The writer threw himself at Howard to hug him. The customers at this end of the bar cheered. Howard laughed, slapping the writer’s back, savoring the moment. This was the joy of his job. (Telling a writer that every publisher in America had rejected their manuscript was the worst.)
Celia placed a frosted mug and a bottle of Beck’s in front of Howard. “Nicely done.”
She was a pretty girl. It was funny, he didn’t remember her as such. While the writer grilled him for details, Howard watched Celia and began to realize why she might have given Amanda pause for thought. She was one of those seriously AWOL Fairfield County girls, a fascinating Waspy creature who could exude a kind of smoldering sexuality.Maybe it was the way her jeans fit her. She had a great ass.
When the writer left to use the bathroom Celia put a dish of pretzels down in front of Howard. “Thank God you had good news. He’s been depressed for as long as I’ve been serving him.”
Her eyes were nice.Very dark. Like her hair. “Which is how long?”
“Three years,” she said, leaving to get another patron a drink.
When she came back Howard told her, “There is a school of thought that says it’s good to keep writers depressed because then they stay home and write.”
She laughed. It made her much more attractive. She had a great smile.
“I hear you ran into my wife early this morning.”
Her eyebrows went up. “I did?”
“In the lobby. Around three this morning?”
Celia still looked uncertain and held up a finger, signaling that Howard was to hold that thought while she got another customer a drink.
Howard saw the writer standing just outside the bar area, holding a cell phone to one ear and covering his other with a hand. He guessed he was calling his wife with the good news.
“I got sort of hammered here after work last night,” Celia admitted on her return. “I think I remember seeing her. With the baby. Your wife has really beautiful hair, right?”
“Yes, she does.”
“And absolutely huge tits,” Celia added.
Howard did a double take.
Celia covered her mouth, aghast. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. My roommate and I watch this show on BBC America, What Not to Wear, and this lady Trinny’s always saying stuff like that so we’ve been saying it to each other. I didn’t mean to be rude—”
“Miss?” a customer called.
“I meant it as a compliment,” she said, moving away. “I mean, look.” She gestured to her own breasts and then made a gesture of futility.
No, there wasn’t much there, Howard had to agree. But Celia did have terrific legs and that great swing to her ass.
“My wife thinks I’m lying about the Australian publisher,” the writer announced upon his return. “She thinks I’m saying it so I can stay out and drink and not have to deal with her parents. The busboy says he knows you, by the way. That one, over there. Joey or something.”
Howard smiled. “Hey! Jason!”
The teenager untangled himself from a tray of dirty dishes and came over, smiling and wiping his hands on his apron before shaking Howard’s hand. “Hey, Mr. Stewart.”
“Long time no see,” Howard joked. Jason was a great kid, but really shy. Of course, with a mother like Rosanne, Howard imagined it would be hard to get a word in edgewise. “Was that turkey gross or what?”
“It wasn’t that bad,” the boy said nicely. “At least it didn’t have any buckshot in it this year.”
They laughed.
“My novel’s getting published,” the writer told Jason.
“Congratulations. Is Mr. Stewart your agent?”
“Best agent in the world,” the writer declared, but Jason’s eyes had moved to something behind them. Howard turned to see what he was looking at. Celia. Jason was looking at Celia. When Howard turned back around he could see a rash of scarlet spreading across Jason’s neck.
Jason had a crush on her.
“If you want, Jason,” he heard Celia say, “you can have a second break.”
Jason’s eyes lit up. “Yeah. Yeah! That’d be great,” he stammered.
“Then you better go and take it before she changes her mind,” Howard said.
“Yeah. I guess.” Jason stuck his hand out. “Thanks again for dinner, Mr. S
tewart.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Congratulations again on your book,” Jason said politely as he backed away.
They turned back around on their stools to lean on the bar. “Seems like a good kid,” the writer said.
“He is. I think he’s going to do very well.” For some reason this reminded him of the financial mess he was in and it made him feel sick inside. “I think I need a real drink,” Howard announced. “What are you drinking?”
“Irish Mist.”
“Sounds good to me.” He looked around. “Where’s Celia?”
The bartender servicing the other end of the bar came down to Howard. “Can I get you fellas something?”
“Where’s Celia?”
“On break. What can I get you?”
Howard ordered two Irish Mists. The writer drank his pretty fast while Howard nursed his. Celia reappeared behind the bar about ten minutes later.
“You’re a little young for hot flashes,” the writer told her when Celia came over to see how they were doing. He had started slurring his words.
Celia blew the hair off her face. She did look hot. “Say that again?”
The writer repeated it.
“I think you’ve hit your limit,” Celia said, smoothly swiping his empty glass from the bar. “So what can I get you? On me. Water, soda or coffee?” She put a dish of pretzels in front of him.
“Fuck that, I wanna real drink,” he said, swatting the dish of pretzels off the bar. The pretzels went flying and the saucer clattered down on the floor behind the bar.
Celia looked at Howard. “Tell him I won’t hold it against him tomorrow.” And then she walked down to the other end of the bar.
“Fuck her,” the writer growled, trying to get off the bar stool. Howard held his arm to steady him and the writer threw his hand off.
“Okay, okay,” Howard said, backing off.
Without another word the writer staggered out of the bar.
“He left his coat,” the woman with lots of makeup on said.
Celia came to wipe down the bar again and Howard apologized. He thought it had been that last drink that had done it. Celia agreed that had she been out here she probably would not have poured him that last drink. She said the writer got a certain look when he was on the verge of a blackout. “The cold will wake him up, though,” she said with a smile. “How about a turkey sandwich? They’re really good.”
Riverside Park Page 6
