by Jody Gehrman
“So? What’s the problem?” She examines her lipstick in a silver compact, blots it with a napkin. She looks older than when I saw her last. Her hands are veiny and gnarled, in spite of the flawless manicure.
I choose my words carefully. “He needs time to develop. He’s going to be a wonderful writer, but right now his voice is so young, so new.”
“Young is good. As long as he delivers.”
“You know what I mean. Commercial pressure at this point could be … problematic.”
She rolls her eyes. “You academics!”
I can’t help bristling slightly. I’m not an “academic.” I’m a writer who happens to teach. There’s a difference.
She laughs, her cherry red mouth opening wide and letting out an enormous sound that startles me.
“Don’t look so offended, Kate. I’m just saying, don’t overthink it. You professors spend so much time in your ivory tower talking about great literature, you start believing every book is the Sistine Chapel.”
“I see your point, but—”
She cuts me off. “I hate to sound crass, but I don’t make a living off the Sistine Chapel. Good, solid commercial fiction. That’s my bread and butter. If this kid can swing that, fantastic. If not, c’est la vie, you know?”
“I’m not sure he’s ready,” I say.
Maxine’s eyes bounce up and land on something behind me.
When I hear his voice, so close and quiet, the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
SAM
You say it without conviction. I’m standing behind you, wearing my only good pair of black pants and a shirt I ironed five times this morning.
“I’m ready.” I don’t raise my voice.
But you should know, Kate, this is a betrayal. I’ve never been so pissed off in all my life. How could you undermine me? Right here, in front of the very person we need on our side? Are you really this fickle? Yesterday, I’m your rising star; now, I’m “not ready”? Is that jealousy rearing its ugly head already? What the ever-loving fuck, Kate?
I’ve known—always known—you would have to wrestle with your demons. I’ve been prepared for those moments in our relationship when your envy of my rise to stardom will interfere with our tranquility. You will get drunk some nights. You’ll throw things. That’s how artists live. My books will sell more copies than yours; my awards will pile up. After the Coen Brothers’ adaptation, my fame will be off the charts. You’ll start seeing your name in the press as an afterthought. Sam Grist pictured here with his lover, Kate Youngblood, also an author.
And let’s face it, Kate, there will be other challenges. You’ll feel old sometimes. The girls who throw themselves at me will be half your age, and you’ll wonder why I stay with you when every model in Manhattan yearns for me.
But your worries will be misguided. Because you are more beautiful, more enchanting, than any woman, no matter what her age. That’s forever. Though my books will sell better, they will not be better, because you write with such style and grace, such razor-sharp clarity, that the masses cannot and will not see your genius.
Just like that, my anger vanishes. I get it. You’re protective of me.
The agent, Maxine, stands. Her bony hand shoots out to grasp mine. “You must be Sam.”
“Sam I am.”
She laughs. It’s an eruption of sound. Everyone in the restaurant turns to look. She shakes her crazy Cher hair out of her eyes. I can see by the way she holds her rail-thin body, the hyper-erect posture, the tilt of her hips, this woman likes to be fucked. She’s old enough to be my mother, but it’s easy enough to see the sensual greed in her sparkling eyes. I doubt it’s aimed at me in particular. It’s just the way she moves, out of habit or sheer, stubborn will. Twenty years ago I bet she had a different man in her bed every week. Maybe every night. She’s fierce and obstinate and fuckable. I like this woman. She’s the agent for me.
I wasn’t sure until now.
We sit down, and the waiter hurries over. He looks at me with a polite, neutral expression, but I can tell he’s trying to figure out how I fit in here. I flash him a cryptic grin—wouldn’t you like to know?—and order coffee, black.
“Kate tells me you’re an ‘extraordinary’ writer.” She doesn’t do that thing with her fingers, the dreaded air quotes, but it’s not hard to hear the quotation marks in her voice.
“Though she obviously thinks I’m too green.” I shoot you a scolding look, though I’ve already forgiven you. “Green can be good though, right? Salinger was twenty-two when he published his first story in The New Yorker.”
“Green’s my favorite color.” Maxine’s smile is slow and sly. “Why don’t you tell me a little about your book?”
I nod. Under the linen tablecloth, my fingers grasp each other and start to go numb. Of course I knew she’d ask. I rehearsed my response to this exact question all morning. I even cut class to practice in front of the mirror about five thousand times. It’s all about brevity, confidence, and intrigue.
I will myself to exude bulletproof charisma. I like Maxine, but it’s easy to see she has no time for weakness. Even you, with your ethereal beauty and your crisp academic diction, you try her patience. That’s not your fault. Maxine is a New York native, through and through. Manhattan traffic was her lullaby; her first martini was at the Algonquin. Just look at her. She’s not an easy woman to please.
I clear my throat and launch into my memorized pitch.
When I’m done, she smiles. We study one another for a long moment. I refuse to plunk disclaimers into the pit of silence that follows. We’re two panthers circling, sizing each other up.
“Uplifting.” She’s sarcastic, but I can see the greed lighting her eyes. Sure, it’s all in the execution, but she knows and I know it’s a fucking great premise. High-concept. Marketable. Money in the bank.
I risk a sideways glance at you. Your face is a closed flower, unreadable.
“Have you got a title?” Maxine asks.
“Red-Blooded American Male.” I know the trick with titles. Say it like you mean it. I sell every syllable. Then I lean back in my chair, spent. The waiter brings our coffee. Maxine never moves her eyes from mine.
Again with the smile, the panther sizing up her dinner. “How very bold.”
“That’s me.” I return the smile, not as a clueless gazelle about to be clawed into ribbons, but a bigger, stronger panther ready to take over the whole fucking jungle.
When Maxine turns her attention to loading her coffee with artificial sweetener, our eyes meet at last. You’re proud of me, I can tell. I want to dive under the table and go down on you right now, make you pant and scream. Instead, I bump one knee against yours and fix you with a humble, grateful look.
From: Kate Youngblood
To: Zoe Tait
Subject: Wedding Apocalypse!
The invitation to Pablo’s wedding came today. Felt like a bomb going off in my belly. I don’t know what it’s like to have someone kicking the shit out of you down there, but this sure as hell seemed like a close approximation, especially if the baby was actually an explosive device.
I can’t believe I’m still upset by this. The asshole left me nine months ago.
I’m not going. Of course not. Right? Or would getting dressed up in something drop dead gorgeous and eating their overpriced canapés bring the necessary closure?
I just want to move on.
Why won’t my heart get the fucking memo?
xo
Kate
From: Zoe Tait
To: Kate Youngblood
Subject: RE: Wedding Apocalypse!
Darling, you are totally allowed to be thrown by this. Who wouldn’t be? The dick left you for a fat, pubescent hairdresser. It’s disgusting. You have every right to be repulsed by this insensitive reminder. Who does he think he is?!! Of course you shouldn’t go!!! That’s not a step in the right direction.
I’m a human beach ball. I have no way to look directly at my toes. I have a
cid reflux so bad, my mouth continually tastes like vomit.
Just so you know.
Kisses,
Zoe
Your ex-husband is getting married. I stare at my phone, re-reading your email. You’re depressed about it. He’s marrying someone half your age with a quarter of your education.
I google Kate Youngblood Pablo, and a picture comes up. This must be his Facebook page. Pablo Morrera. I study you with your suave ex, both of you radiant on some exotic beach. Behind you, the turquoise sea sparkles. Did he filter it? Must have; the colors are unreal. You’re pale and glorious in an old-fashioned, emerald green bikini. He’s dark, broad-shouldered, naked from the waist, with the biggest, whitest teeth I’ve ever seen.
I zoom in on his swim trunks, which are clingy and wet. He could never satisfy you, Kate. You deserve so much more.
Though I know he had to leave you so we could be together, I’m still pissed at him for making you feel unwanted. His stupidity amazes me. The thought of some guy chucking you for a brainless nobody makes me want to find him and teach him a lesson.
I feel my phone vibrate and open another email. It’s Zoe again with a P.S.
From: Zoe Tait
To: Kate Youngblood
Subject: RE: Wedding Apocalypse!
P.S. I have someone I want to fix you up with. Don’t groan and hide your eyes, Kate. You need, and I emphasize need, to get on with life. Pablo was a mere tangent. Okay, so you spent ten formative years of your life with him, but that doesn’t mean you can’t move on. You can, and you will. That’s an order.
From: Kate Youngblood
To: Zoe Tait
Subject: RE: Wedding Apocalypse!
Who is he?
From: Zoe Tait
To: Kate Youngblood
Subject: RE: Wedding Apocalypse!
His name’s Raul Torres. He owns a string of high-end Italian restaurants across the Midwest. Just moved here, owns that place with the cannoli to die for. He’s handsome, he’s got hair, and he’s comfortable. Plus he’s unspeakably hot. No, really, if I didn’t have Bo, I’d totally fuck this guy. Something about his aura is very sexual. I’m not trying to pimp him out (well, a little), but honestly, if you don’t snatch this one up, you’re missing out.
From: Kate Youngblood
To: Zoe Tait
Subject: RE: Wedding Apocalypse!
Okay.
From: Zoe Tait
To: Kate Youngblood
Subject: RE: Wedding Apocalypse!
Okay?
From: Kate Youngblood
To: Zoe Tait
Subject: RE: Wedding Apocalypse!
You said it yourself. It’s time to move on.
From: Zoe Tait
To: Kate Youngblood
Subject: RE: Wedding Apocalypse!
Hallelujah! You are not going to regret this, Kate!!! I’ll tell this story at your wedding!!!
I can’t help feeling a little peeved at your easy enthusiasm for Raul Torres. Sounds like a hero from a telenovela. What is it with you and these Latin Lovers? Is that your type? Do I seem pale and thin next to your hulking Mayan warriors?
I saw the beach photo, though. I know Pablo’s got nothing on me.
Zoe, I both hate and adore. She wants you to move on. Good. Perfect. But she’s trying to facilitate that by setting you up with a dickhead restaurant owner? Not even the chef, for god’s sake, the owner! Does she honestly think you’ll be satisfied making polite conversation with someone so far beneath you? At least chefs have some passion, some visceral connection to the senses. They’re artists, poets. But the owner? Not going to cut it. You deserve and require a genius. Geniuses do not open a string of high-end Italian restaurants known for their cannoli.
Does. Not. Happen.
KATE
I’m so not in the mood for this.
Zoe scrolls through her phone, looking for a photo of the man she wants me to fuck.
It’s hard not to read into this.
We’re in her living room. Zoe’s such an artist. Her home is a visual mashup of Frida Kahlo and Dr. Seuss. The red sofa we’re sitting on is all curves, like a beautiful velvet comma. Colored Moroccan lanterns dangle from every corner. It’s bohemian, but not random. Stylish, but never fussy.
“Okay, okay, here he is.” She holds the phone up to my face. A photo of a dark-eyed, broad-shouldered man swims before my eyes.
I take the phone from her. “Wow.”
“Right?!” She sounds excited. There’s something else in her voice, though, too. Wistfulness?
“He looks like a model.”
“I know!” She snatches her phone back and stares long and hard at him. “He’s delicious.”
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch.” Zoe studies her phone, then thrusts it back at me. “Totally your type, yeah?”
I’m not sure how to break it to Zoe that just because I was married to a guy from Argentina, that doesn’t make Latino men my “type.” But she seems so happy. I haven’t seen her this excited about anything in ages. I want to please her.
“Hard to tell from a photo.” I’m trying not to get her hopes up, but I also don’t want to dash them cruelly. I need to meet this guy without big expectations. Those inevitably lead to disappointment. It’s like seeing a movie after it’s already won an Oscar. Nothing can live up to the hype.
“He owns, like, seven restaurants. Totally loaded. Has a house in Santa Fe, another in Tahoe. The man’s a genius when it comes to money. He came from nothing, worked his way up.”
“Classic ‘rags to riches,’ huh?”
She frowns. “Don’t be bitchy.”
“I’m not,” I protest. “What did I say?”
“I can tell you’ve decided not to like him.”
“That’s not fair. All I said was ‘rags to riches.’”
“What do you have to lose if you fall for him?”
I consider. “My pride. My self-esteem. My heart.”
“Small price to pay.” She grins. “Did you see his abs?”
“Like a corrugated roof.”
“Mmm…” She stares off in dreamy contemplation.
“You sure you don’t want this one yourself?” I’m sorry, but it has to be asked.
Faint worry lines appear between her brows. “Of course not.”
“I’m just saying…”
“Just because I see his appeal doesn’t mean I want him for myself.” She gives me a prim look. “I’m married, with a bun in the oven.”
“True. Kind of skanky to be cattin’ around in that state.”
“Completely.”
“You really think I’ll like him?”
“You’re going to love him.” She pockets her phone and gives a theatrical shiver. “There’s a party this Saturday. He should be there. You could come with Bo and me. Low stakes, not a date.”
“What sort of party?”
“At Abby’s.”
I give her a blank look.
“Abby Lacy? Owns the bakery? Bo’s boss?” She shrugs and moves on. “You met her once, I’m pretty sure. She started the mommy group I’m in.”
“You’re in a mommy group?” I try not to sound bitchy.
“Yep.” She doesn’t elaborate.
This is new. Her eyes move around the room, not meeting mine. Normally, Zoe and I avoid women’s groups with dogged determination. This one chick in grad school tried to recruit us for her book group. She got so aggressive about it, Zoe and I showed up drunk and offered everyone fake tabs of acid. We were not invited again.
Finally, I break the silence. “Isn’t that a little premature?”
She arches one eyebrow at me.
“Like, shouldn’t you be mommies first?”
“I know, right?” She laughs. “That’s what I said. We mostly just get together and bitch about acid reflux.”
Still my Zoe, then. The tension in my shoulders relaxes a millimeter.
“Anyway, it’s a harvest party.” She sips her t
ea.
“Oh. Okay.” The term conjures vague images of pumpkins and pilgrims. Corn husks? Jesus, I don’t know. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“I think her husband brews his own beer—hard cider, that kind of thing.”
“So, like, Oktoberfest?”
“Something like that.” She’s noncommittal. “The point is, Abs Lincoln will be there.”
I almost choke on my tea. “Jesus, you’re too much.”
She smiles, pleased with herself. “Also, it’s the same day as Pablo’s wedding. You’ll need a distraction. Raul Torres can be very diverting. I’ll email you the invite.”
I make a face. “Don’t be disappointed if sparks don’t fly.”
“They’ll fly,” she says, all confidence. “Believe me, they’ll fly.”
SAM
The huge brass sign at the entrance off the highway features ornate Edwardian script. Aspen Heights. I love how subdivisions take their names from whatever they bulldozed.
A quarter mile of look-alike McMansions later, I’m standing on the porch of Abby and Greg Lacy, trying not to gag. It’s a faux Colonial. Its hulk fills most of the lot, putting their ornate dormer windows spitting distance from their neighbors’. The garage could double as an airplane hangar. No fewer than six Doric columns flank the front door. The yard is littered with festive symbols of autumn. It looks like somebody—Abby, I’m guessing—inhaled everything in Walmart’s seasonal aisle and puked it all over the fake grass.
I ring the doorbell, wiping my hands on my charcoal wool pants. It took me three hours at the Goodwill to put together this ensemble. Wool pants, button-down cream shirt, classic tweed vest. Nobody fears a guy in a tweed vest.
I pray I don’t reek of mothballs and somebody else’s sweat.
“Hello!” The woman who swings open the door has one of those “Can I Speak to Your Manager?” haircuts—longish in the front, short in the back, with chunky, gold highlights so unsubtle she’s striped. Her belly is the size of a watermelon. She cups it with one hand like she’s guarding it. I can tell by the high, bright circles of color staining her cheeks she’s been hitting the merlot.
