Emily and Einstein

by Linda Francis Lee

  The only one of us in the car who was standoffish was Einstein. The minute we walked up to Max, E stiffened, his nose in the air sniffing. He swung his head back and forth between Max and me, then shook his head as if to negate whatever it was he had smelled and let Jordan pick him up when she hopped into the backseat of the Jeep.

  “This is an embarrassment,” Jordan announced two hours later as we turned off the Montauk Highway and headed into the Hamptons. “How did I forget what a bourgeois nightmare this place is?”

  Max laughed, putting up his hand to give her a high five. “I tell my sister that all the time.”

  His sister’s house in Southampton was a lovely two-story clapboard and cedar shingle cape on a tree-lined street. It didn’t take us any time at all to unload the boxes.

  “Melanie’s redoing the place and didn’t trust anyone else to bring these out.” Max pointed to a box and grimaced. “Handblown glass.”

  Once the glass was packed away, we loaded back up then made our way into the heart of Southampton for a picnic lunch. With food, sodas, and water in tow, we headed down Main to Gin Lane and parked in a sprawling lot that we may or may not have been allowed to park in.

  After Jordan and Einstein raced ahead, Max hung back with me. On the long sandy path that led to the ocean, I kicked off my sandals and felt the sand between my toes. Max didn’t take my hand, but our arms brushed as we made our way through the low dunes and came out on the beach.

  Jordan had run forward, splashing into the tide up to her knees. Einstein followed as far as the waterline, then stopped and stood there, raising his muzzle, sniffing the air, taking in the sun and ocean. In that second, he seemed at home, at peace, as if he had returned to a place that he loved. Which should have seemed ridiculous, but with Einstein strange things no longer seemed so strange.

  Like Einstein, I tipped my face up to the sun, feeling as if I could fly.

  “It feels good,” Max said.

  “Yes.” Like the sand between my toes. “I can’t remember feeling this … carefree in a long time. Thank you.”

  “It’s the knight thing. Lancelot’s got nothing on me.”

  When I glanced at him his smile made me laugh, out loud, with a wonderful abandon. “If you’re not careful, next you’re going to make me giggle.”

  He slanted me a wry look. “Like a schoolgirl?”

  Which made me do just that.

  Together we spread out the blanket he had brought, along with the lunch. It was noon and the four of us didn’t waste a minute polishing off every last bite we had purchased at the sandwich shop, including the plain grilled chicken we had gotten for Einstein.

  When we were done, Max pulled off his shirt. If he had been gorgeous before, he was stunning now.

  “Who wants to go in?” He looked at me.

  That got my attention. “No thanks.”

  Jordan laughed. “She’s not much for the water. But I’m game.”

  She pulled off her own shirt. Underneath she had on a bikini. She wasn’t the least bit self-conscious about her pudgy stomach or lily white skin. Max kicked off the cargo shorts and revealed very distinct gym shorts.

  “Get out,” Jordan said. “You’re military?”

  “Navy.”

  She debated for a second, then shrugged. “Oh well.”

  They ran toward the water. Einstein leaped up and raced after them, coming to a screeching halt when a wave rushed up on the beach. Frustrated, he raced back and forth, barking, then stopping, hanging his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was doing, only to leap up to race again, snapping at the air.

  I put the remnants of lunch away, then stretched out in the sand, closing my eyes and feeling the sun beat down on me. I don’t know how much time passed, but I surfaced from my thoughts when I felt water dripping on me.

  I came up on my elbows to find Max standing over me, Jordan and Einstein walking down the beach together.

  “Where are they going?”

  “To scope things out.”

  “Maybe I should get Einstein.”

  He chuckled. “He can take care of himself. He’s one weird dog.”

  I opened my mouth to protest.

  “But smart,” he said, dropping down on his knees in front of me. “It’s like he’s almost human.” He shook his head. “Yep, weird. But even weirder, it’s like he’s all about being proud and great, or something.” He shook his head. “It sounds crazy.”

  “I know what you mean. When I first got the job at Caldecote I worked on a book about great men. Einstein has a way of making me remember it.”

  “Who were the great men?”

  I thought back. “Da Vinci, Mozart, even Tiger Woods, which surprised me. But what was really amazing was how the author went into these other guys, contemporaries or counterpoints to the great ones.”

  “Like who?”

  “Turns out that Botticelli apprenticed in the same workshop as Leonardo, and a guy named Salieri had a lot more opportunities than Mozart. Even Phil Mickelson, another golfer, came up through the ranks with Tiger. They are all guys who did well, even became famous to some degree. But it’s da Vinci, Mozart, and probably Tiger Woods who will go down in history as the great ones. Though I guess it remains to be seen what happens with Tiger now.”

  Max rolled to the side and sat next to me. “It makes you wonder,” he said, “why is it that Botticelli and Salieri aren’t the ones who became larger than life? Were they not as good? Did they not want it as much? Or did something get in their way?”

  I jerked my head around to look at him. “Exactly!”

  I felt the shift in Max as he crossed his arms on his knees. We sat side by side, looking out over the water, at ease. “But what really got me,” I said quietly, “was that when anyone thinks of important names in the women’s movement, they think of Gloria Steinem or Betty Freidan. After I finished editing that manuscript, it was the first time I asked myself why people didn’t think of my mother.”

  He didn’t respond, just looked out. It wasn’t until we were back in Manhattan, Jordan and Einstein jumping out and bolting for the curb, that Max stopped me from getting out of the Jeep.

  “There are many measures of success,” he said. “No question being great at something is one of them. But I’ve got to believe,” he added, slipping his fingers around my neck, pulling me to him, “that surviving is another.” Then he kissed me just as he had on the rooftop, though this time it was a kiss that promised so much more.

  “Remember that,” he said against my mouth.

  Too soon he pulled away, then reached across me and popped my door open.

  “Thanks for keeping me company today.”

  *

  Ruth’s Intention came out the following Tuesday.

  Birdie wheeled into my office. “Today’s the day! This is so great. I can’t wait to see Victoria’s face when Nate has to announce that Ruth hit the Times list!”

  For a week, my stomach stayed lodged in my throat. For a week, I checked in with sales every day. For a week, I checked Amazon and BN.com rankings with a regularity that bordered on obsession. But on the following Wednesday, despite everything we had done, it was clear Ruth’s Intention wasn’t selling.

  “It’s a crime!” Birdie bleated.

  Tatiana scowled.

  Victoria smirked.

  The next week, Ruth sold a few copies, but in bursts and spurts in odd corners around the country, not nearly enough to achieve the kind of success Tatiana had counted on. No one was happy, with the exception of Victoria who made all the right noises, but I saw her do the Rocky air pump when she thought no one was looking.

  Since our drive out to Long Island, Jordan had been happy. For days I came home to find the table set and dinner ready. When I entered the kitchen Jordan held up wooden spoons filled with exotic fare she had learned to cook in the jungle. Frequently Max joined us. He never touched me in front of my sister or Einstein, but I always knew he was aware of me, and while we talked and laugh
ed I anticipated the moment when he would tug me away from them and run his lips along my skin.

  But I could hardly concentrate.

  Over dinner one night I finally admitted the mess that had happened with Ruth’s Intention. Jordan commiserated, then surprised me when she opened up about her own manuscript. She didn’t let me read any of her new pages, but I contented myself with the fact that she was telling me what she was doing with the kind of excitement my sister rarely showed.

  In the mornings, I rolled out of bed determined to conquer the upper park loop. If I couldn’t run it without stopping, how did I ever think I had it in me to run a marathon? But each morning I couldn’t make it up to the top of Heartbreak Hill.

  On the following Friday I decided that this was my last chance. If I could make it to the top, it was a sign that I could run the marathon.

  I felt a shiver of apprehension at the thought. I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to me if Ruth failed and I wasn’t strong enough to achieve my goal of running the marathon?

  You are strong, Emily, I told myself. This is just another challenge that you’ll get through.

  The sun was barely a hint when I started out, painting strokes of red and orange into the blue-black sky. I didn’t take in the sights; I didn’t think about work. I focused and made it up Cat Hill easily.

  I kept going, aware of nothing but my footfalls, and before I knew it I hit Heartbreak Hill on the backside of the park. The initial incline wasn’t bad and I made it around the first curve ignoring the tightness that started in my legs.

  I continued on. But the farther I climbed, the more my muscles strained, and I had the fleeting thought that this wasn’t working.

  I kept going, my breathing more labored by the second as several runners passed me like they were running on the flat. A girl and guy flew by, talking about some movie they had seen the night before. My feet were barely moving.

  “You can fly.”

  The words surprised me, but I pushed them away as I came around another curve, praying the top was near. But I knew better. There was an even steeper incline between me and the top.

  By then, every inch of me cried out to stop. Suddenly it all seemed crazy and I started to rationalize. I told myself it was just a run. Not an Olympic event. No one cared if I ran or walked or staggered over to Central Park West and caught the subway home. No one knew I had any interest in running the marathon. Not even Einstein knew that I hoped to run farther than my daily reservoir jaunt.

  But I knew; I would know if I quit.

  Head down. Focus. But my muscles wouldn’t loosen up and my lungs burned as a man of no less than seventy buzzed past me. A woman, whose legs flailed behind her, cruised by like I stood still. And when every inch of me ached to stop at the same time a mother with a jogging stroller and sleeping child went by, I couldn’t do it anymore.

  I staggered to a halt halfway up the hill with a curse. I closed my eyes, my fingers pressed to my lids as if I could keep emotion in check.

  “Damn it!” I yelled.

  “Fly, baby girl, fly!”

  The memory hit hard and fast, spurred no doubt by Jordan’s book, of my mother on the beach, the same water I had nearly drowned in the night before rushing around her ankles.

  I hadn’t told my mother what had happened to me in the ocean. When she found me in my room the next morning, I was packing my tiny suitcase. I demanded that she take me home.

  “What, you’re done here?” she said, half laughing, half put out.

  “Yes. I want to go home.”

  “Why? Give me one good reason why.”

  I considered what to say. I didn’t know any other eight-year-olds who had to present valid arguments for anything they wanted. I had seen more than one kid in my class throw a fit to get their way. I had tried that once, never again.

  I opted for a piece of the truth. “I don’t like the water.”

  “The water? You?” She shook her head, then smiled. “Emily Barlow, you might make me want to pull my hair out half the time, but I’ve never known you to be afraid of anything. Don’t tell me you’re going to start now?”

  My tiny fists knotted at my sides, my face burning. “I am brave.”

  “Then prove it.”

  Lillian Barlow raced out of my room barefoot, her nightgown fluttering around her as she hurried down the stairs and flew out onto the beach while the rest of the world was still asleep.

  “I am brave,” I repeated under my breath, fear battling with something more complex. But I followed, scampering after her. When I got to the beach, the early morning salt air hitting me in the face, she skipped around me.

  “See! My daughter, Emily Barlow,” she shouted up to the sky, “is afraid of nothing!”

  Then she took my hands and twirled me in circles, laughing, dancing, as happy as I had ever seen her, until my feet came off the sand and I flew.

  “Fly, baby girl, fly!”

  Over the years, there hadn’t been much about how I lived that she agreed with. But she had admired the fact that I was brave, that I wasn’t a quitter.

  And before I realized it, standing halfway up Heartbreak Hill in Central Park, I flung my head back and cried out into the early morning sky, its edges now entirely blue. Then I started to sprint. I didn’t jog; I didn’t run at a decent pace. I ran hard, pushing my body, making every muscle and tendon scream. When I came to the top, the skyscrapers along Fifty-ninth Street standing faintly in the distance, I looked out, my throat tight, my eyes burning, but this time with joy. I could do this. I could run the marathon.

  It was a moment of pure truth that spurred another.

  Sandy hadn’t kept his promise. Sandy had died. And before that I had tried to win Sandy back, only to have my efforts tossed in my face. Those were the facts, facts that I realized I could live with. And when I started down the other side, headed for home, I knew exactly what I was going to do.

  As soon as I got to Caldecote, I went straight to Mercy Gray’s office. Without knocking, without saying hello, I said, “Something isn’t right. Ruth shouldn’t be failing.”

  She beat her pen on the blotter and considered me before she tossed it aside and picked up the phone. Over the course of the day, she called sales reps, who called accounts, who called bookstores. She didn’t have any answers for me, but when we got the numbers the following week Ruth had started to sell.

  In one of Tatiana’s meetings, the tension around her mouth had eased. “But we’re not out of the woods yet,” she said.

  The following week the numbers exploded. When I saw Tatiana in the hall, our eyes met, though neither of us spoke because each of us knew what the other was waiting for.

  At the end of the day on Wednesday, I walked into Tatiana’s office when I knew the New York Times list was being released. Mercy came in behind me. Tatiana didn’t have to ask why we were there. We had formed a team of sorts, each of us wanting to be together when we heard the news.

  Tatiana looked at us. “It didn’t make it.”

  I gasped.

  Mercy shook her head. “The Times list is a strange beast, part actual numbers, part voodoo. Who really knows? Let’s hope Ruth’s Intention hits enough of the other lists so that the New York Times has to take notice.”

  Sure enough, Ruth showed up on every major list in the country. All except the brass ring of lists.

  I tuned out Tatiana’s frustration. I ignored Victoria’s renewed relief. I sent e-mails to the Times Book Review. When I wasn’t trying to figure out what more I could do, or swallowing back an aching disappointment, I threw myself into rebuilding my list. I set up lunch dates with agents. I read every proposal I could get my hands on. Then on Wednesday of the following week at the end of the day, Tatiana walked into my office.

  “Number seven.”

  “What?”

  “Ruth’s Intention just hit the New York Times Best Sellers list at number seven.”

  I stared at her in shock, which quickly shifted to pure u
nadulterated elation. Just when I stood, to hug her or dance her around the room or who knows what, Birdie raced in. “Oh, my God! Congratulations!”

  Tatiana looked at me over Birdie’s head. In the months Tatiana had been at Caldecote, I had never seen her smile. Today she gave me her usual crisp, no-nonsense nod. But when she turned to leave my office, I saw her pull a deep, relieved breath and I’m almost certain she smiled.

  I didn’t know why the book started to sell, how it bucked the normal trend with increasing rather than decreasing weekly sales. Had the boxes of books been sitting unopened in bookstore stock rooms? Had something gone wrong in shipping? Had it been shelved in the wrong sections of stores? No one had answers, at least none that they were willing to share. All I knew was that a book that deserved to sell had. And I had made it to the top of Heartbreak Hill.

  When everyone left my office, I closed the door and raised my arms in my own Rocky air pump. Max had been right. I could survive and I had.

  Emily Barlow was back.

  einstein

  chapter thirty

  “Let’s have a party!”

  My wife wanted to have a party?

  If I didn’t know better, I would swear my wife was getting over me. Which was impossible. Right?

  I growled at myself. Of course it was impossible. I was not one to experience doubt.

  Truth to tell, I blamed my shaky feelings on that Max fellow. Had I still been a man I might not have liked that he was young, handsome if you went for that type, and clearly capable of achieving any sort of physical quest that he wanted, but I could have fallen back on my own good looks, massive amounts of money, and fine old name. As a dog, well, I had nothing on the lad. Which didn’t sit well with me.

  Thankfully, he was a young one and seemed a decent match for Jordan. Had he been Emily’s age, I might have been concerned. But if I knew anything about my wife, it was that she wasn’t the type to fall for a younger man. She was too sensible for that.

  As to the party, I had always intended to entertain. Fresh out of college I held a few impromptu gatherings, more a result of late-night drinking and ending up at my apartment than planned affairs. Then I got busy at the firm, got busy training for the marathon, got married.