by Abbi Waxman
Praise for
THE BOOKISH LIFE OF NINA HILL
“Move over on the settee, Jane Austen. You’ve met your modern-day match in Abbi Waxman. Bitingly funny, relatable, and intelligent, The Bookish Life of Nina Hill is a must for anyone who loves to read.”
—Kristan Higgins, New York Times bestselling author of Always the Last to Know
“Meet our bookish millennial heroine—a modern-day Elizabeth Bennet, if you will. . . . Waxman’s wit and wry humor stand out.”
—The Washington Post
“Abbi Waxman offers up a quirky, eccentric romance that will charm any bookworm. . . . For anyone who’s ever wondered if their greatest romance might come between the pages of books they read, Waxman offers a heartwarming tribute to that possibility.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“It’s a shame The Bookish Life of Nina Hill only lasts 350 pages, because I wanted to be friends with Nina for far longer.”
—Refinery29
“I hope you’re in the mood to be downright delighted, because that’s the state you’ll find yourself in after reading The Bookish Life of Nina Hill.”
—PopSugar
“The Bookish Life of Nina Hill will put a smile on your face the entire time you’re reading it. It’s a light, fun summer read with a cast of colorful and lovable characters that you wish were real and that you had on your trivia team. This book is the perfect beach read or pick-me-up for a cloudy day.”
—Hypable
“[A] quirky, sweet story.”
—Woman’s World
“In this love letter to book nerds, Waxman introduces the extraordinary introvert Nina Hill. . . . With witty dialogue and a running sarcastic inner monologue, Waxman brings Nina to vibrant life as she upends her introverted routine and becomes part of the family. Fans of Jojo Moyes will love this.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Waxman has created a thoroughly engaging character in this bookish, contemplative, set-in-her-ways woman. Be prepared to chuckle.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Book nerds will feel strong kinship with the engaging, introverted Nina Hill, who works in a bookstore, plays pub trivia, and loves office supplies. . . . Readers will be captivated by Nina’s droll sense of humor.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Charming and relatable for any introvert who would rather pass time with fictional characters than people, but will rise to the occasion with the right support.”
—BookTrib
“Book lovers will absolutely relate to the central character in Abbi Waxman’s third novel.”
—O, The Oprah Magazine
“If you relate to staying in and JOMO (joy of missing out), you’ll relate to Nina.”
—Betches
“Fast, light, and fun.”
—Modern Mrs. Darcy
Praise for
ABBI WAXMAN
and her novels
“Abbi Waxman is both irreverent and thoughtful.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Emily Giffin
“Brilliant. Simply brilliant. . . . I loved this book!”
—Karen White, New York Times bestselling author of the Tradd Street series
“This is my favorite kind of book—hilarious, sad, joyful. Beautifully written. Fun. I dare you not to enjoy it.”
—Julia Claiborne Johnson, author of Be Frank With Me
“Meet your new favorite wry writer.”
—The Daily Beast
“Waxman’s skill at characterization . . . lifts this novel far above being just another ‘widow finds love’ story. Clearly an observer, Waxman has mastered the fine art of dialogue as well.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“Kudos to debut author Waxman for creating an endearing and realistic cast of main and supporting characters (including the children). Her narrative and dialog are drenched with spring showers of witty and irreverent humor.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Waxman’s voice is witty, emotional, and often profound.”
—InStyle (UK)
“This novel is filled with characters you’ll love and wish you lived next door to in real life.”
—Bustle
BERKLEY TITLES BY ABBI WAXMAN
The Garden of Small Beginnings
Other People’s Houses
The Bookish Life of Nina Hill
I Was Told It Would Get Easier
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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Copyright © 2020 by Dorset Square, LLC
Readers Guide copyright © 2020 by Dorset Square, LLC
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Waxman, Abbi, author.
Title: I was told it would get easier / Abbi Waxman.
Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley, 2020.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019056858 | ISBN 9780451491893 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780451491909 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Domestic fiction. | GSAFD: Humorous fiction. | Road fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3623.A8936 I23 2020 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019056858
First Edition: June 2020
Cover art and design by Vikki Chu
Map by Julia Waxman
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Praise for Abbi Waxman
Berkley Titles by Abbi Waxman
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
MapChapter 1
Chapter 2
SundayChapter 3
MondayChapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
TuesdayChapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
WednesdayChapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
ThursdayChapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
FridayChapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
SaturdayChapter 29
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Readers Guide
About the Author
This novel is dedicated to the memory of the wise, warm, and wonderful John Melissinos, and to his wife, Candice, and daughters, Chesney and Logan. I love you all very much and always will.
All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware.
—Martin Buber
1
JESSICA BURNSTEIN, 45,
FULL OF OPTIMISM
I left the house this morning, determined to take the day by the horns and throw it over my shoulder like a scarf, if necessary. I’d had two cups of coffee, I’d remembered to floss, and I was going to tell my boss the crap with Valentina simply wasn’t going to fly anymore.
Forty minutes later, because this is Los Angeles and it takes forty minutes to go anywhere, at any time, I walked into the office slightly less full of beans and with “TiK ToK” by Kesha stuck in my head. I wasn’t entirely sure how I felt about that, but it was the last thing playing when I turned off the car. The party don’t start till I walk in . . . If only I had half her confidence.
I could hear John before I could see him, which was par for the course. Classic iron hand in the velvet glove, my boss, and if occasionally the gloves are fingerless and the fingers a little bit stabby, so much the better. Southern to the core, with all the civility and elegance that implies, but with a Yankee carpetbagger’s eye for profitable misery. Our law firm doesn’t openly chase ambulances, but John does love a tearful plaintiff. He can smell salt water before it steps off the elevator.
I spotted his head over a carpeted cubicle wall. It was angled in such a way that I knew he was with a client. Maybe even a potential client; there was an especially unguent quality to the way his hair fell over his forehead, his eyes hooded with concern. He’s handsome, in the way any large predator is handsome—best appreciated from a safe distance. Up close the extra rows of teeth tend to be a distraction.
As if feeling my disapproval, John looked up and spotted me.
“Ah, Jessica!” he said as if his whole pitch had been waiting for this moment. “You must meet our newest client.”
As there were nearly half a dozen legal assistants in cubicles between the two of us, we both charted an intersecting course and met up—as if by magic—by the impressive double doors to the office suite.
“Mrs. Falconer, this is Jessica Burnstein, a partner and one of our most brilliant attorneys.”
The woman, who was older than I had suspected from John’s level of intensity, gazed tremulously up at me. “Will she be on my case?”
“No,” said John firmly. “I will be handling your case myself.”
Older and richer, then.
The lady and I shook hands, and I applied the carefully calibrated smile lawyers use when they’re meeting someone who has probably been wronged in some way but whose opportunity for vengeance/justice has arrived. The smile says, You’re fine now, but I’m sorry for your loss/accident/partial dismemberment/inability to compete internationally in your chosen sport. After nearly twenty years of practice, it comes pretty easily.
John ushered Mrs. Falconer to the elevators, and I headed to my office. As I passed Laurel, my assistant, I told her to ask Valentina to come and see me.
* * *
• • •
Valentina is younger than me, hungrier than me, and after my job. I’m her mentor, so that’s fine with me. It’s been eight or nine years since I took her under my wing; she’s ready to leave the nest, and I’m ready to make room. However, John was using Valentina’s future as a stick to prod me with, and I was tired of it.
Valentina came in and shut the door behind her. She slinked—there is no other word, unless it’s slunk—across the carpet and flowed into a chair. It’s not her fault she’s a partial liquid; she was born that way. Natural beauty is no more of an achievement than deformity is a punishment—it just is. Valentina is incredibly smart, and one of the hardest-working lawyers I’ve ever met. In a business where appearance contributes to success, she makes sure the first impression of beauty is quickly overwhelmed by the second and more lasting impression of competence. Beauty always fades, but it lasts so much longer if you lay a thick layer of intelligence and integrity underneath it.
“Good morning, Jess,” said Valentina. “How goes it?”
“It goes,” I replied evenly. “I have a feeling John is going to talk to me today about making you a partner.”
“Excellent.”
“Yes, except I think he’s going to be a sneaky bugger about it.”
Her delicately arched eyebrows rose a little. “In what way?”
I shrugged. “In some way I haven’t anticipated yet, because he likes to keep me on my toes. Has he said anything to you?”
She shook her head. “Nope. Not a word.”
I looked at her. Was it possible she was lying? A momentary flicker of doubt . . . but she saw it in my eyes and leaned forward.
“Jessica, he’s not the only one with a plan, remember? Don’t underestimate me. I want to make partner, and I want you to be head of litigation so I can slipstream you all the way to the Supreme Court.” She sat back. “A wise woman once pointed out to me that men have dominated the legal profession for decades and used their collective power to improve things for other men, both inside and outside of the law. It’s our turn now.”
“Who told you that? Me?”
“No, my grandmother.”
“The one that’s a judge?”
“No, the one that’s a hairdresser.”
“Right.” I paused. “So . . . you’re ready?”
“I’m ready, and so are you. Go on your trip and don’t let him ruin it by coming along inside your head.”
“That’s a horrible thought.”
She stood up, again appearing to defy the laws of physics. “You’re welcome.” She turned and walked to the door, pausing once more. “Plus, if you can handle a sixteen-year-old girl, you can handle a fifty-five-year-old guy.”
“You would think.”
She left, and I swung my chair around and gazed out the window. Across the canyons of downtown Los Angeles was a skyscraper that featured a glass slide on the outside of the seventieth floor. My daughter Emily and I had gone down it once, and I’d been much less scared than I’d expected. The thought of the lawsuit that would arise from dropping a tourist a thousand feet onto a busy stretch of downtown LA told me they’d probably made the slide strong enough to drive a truck down. Emily had stopped halfway down the slide to examine the construction and post pictures to Instagram, and afterwards we’d had one of the few conversations in recent memory that hadn’t devolved into an argument about her future. I thought about our upcoming trip to visit colleges, and wondered if we could work something life-threatening into the itinerary every day in order to maintain the peace.
Laurel buzzed me. “Jessica, John wants to see you in his office when you have a minute.”
“Alright, let him know I’m on my way.”
But I waited ten minutes, because, you know, power move.
* * *
• • •
John was sharpening his scythe as I came in—wait, did I say scythe? I meant pencil.
“Ah, Jessica.”
I wondered if he always said ah before he said my name, and I’d somehow failed to notice it. Maybe he thought my name was Ahjessica?
“John,” I replied, proving that we were at least each talking to the right person. I started to sit down, whereupon he told me to take a seat, as if I’d been waiting for permission. That BS might work on a junior lawyer, but I’d been at this game too long.
“Already taken, thanks,” I said. “How can I help you?” By phrasing it that way, I put him on the back foot,
because he’d actually requested my presence, not my help. Pay attention, folks, it’s a master class in here.
“You can’t,” he laughed, which is why he’s the boss. “But I wanted to talk to you about Valentina.”
I nodded and waited.
He leaned forward. “Look, you and I are similar people. We know how things work, right?”
Forced teaming. Google it. It’s what manipulators do to make you feel a connection they can then exploit. I’ve read The Gift of Fear (which everyone should), so I said, “I don’t think we’re all that similar, John, and you wanted to talk about Valentina?”
Sidenote: I actually like John, despite the fact he often behaves like a jerk. He’s an incredible lawyer who thinks better on his feet than most people do sitting down, and he’s taught me everything I know. But I trust him only because I know how he lies.
John smiled. “I like Valentina, she’s extremely capable.”
“Yes.”
He regarded me narrowly for a moment, then relaxed his face. It’s his way of miming, I’m not sure I understand you . . . Wait, now I get it because, damn, I’m smart. He must practice in a mirror. “I know you think she should make partner this year.”
“I thought she should have made partner last year.” My face betrayed nothing, which I’m long past practicing in a mirror.
“But there is the issue of the board.”
My breathing was steady. “In what sense?”
“Well, you know . . .”
“No, I don’t.”
“The board wouldn’t want it to look like we were, you know, reacting to current events.”
“Which current events, John? Please speak plainly.” (Again, sidenote: When buying time, phrase your delaying tactics as mild criticism—I’m sorry, that didn’t make sense/Please restate that, it wasn’t clear/Your language is garbled, please remove that scorpion from your mouth. It makes your conversational opponent scramble a little. Side sidenote: If your questioner has a scorpion in her mouth, deal with that first.)
