Surfside Sisters(49)
She looked miserable. Well, she felt miserable. It was ridiculous to feel this way, but she did feel so betrayed by Isabelle, so very abandoned. After all the years of their friendship, Isabelle was out in the world, smiling, pregnant, and she should have told Keely the moment she realized she was pregnant, she should have asked Keely to be with her when she took the first pregnancy test. They would have screamed with joy, they would have hugged each other, they would have talked for hours about the baby that Isabelle was carrying.
Isabelle shared all that with Tommy. And with her family, and with her friends.
Keely sank onto the couch as another realization hit. Isabelle had of course shared the news with her friends—and not one of them had called to tell Keely.
Sometimes she feared she was going mad. She spent almost all her time alone, writing, or running, or doing chores for her mother, and her mother was her main source of conversation these days. What would it be like in a few months, when Isabelle would be strolling around town with a baby tucked up against her heart? Would Janine, or anyone, invite Keely to a baby shower for Isabelle? Not likely.
The next day, Sally Hazlitt phoned Keely. “Can you come into New York sometime soon? We’ve got several things to go over.”
“Of course,” Keely said. “Give me a date, and I’ll be there.”
Keely felt as if she were drowning in loneliness, and suddenly a life preserver was tossed to her. She would seize it and hold on to it and let herself be pulled up to the surface and into the glittering world of New York.
Keely and Fiona were having drinks at the Algonquin after a full day of work at the literary agency. Keely was learning about the publishing side of a book—the art department that was charged with creating a compelling cover, the publicist who worked to organize Keely’s events at bookstores, libraries, and book festivals, the proofreading that made Keely’s eyes cross. She was meeting people who were doing that work—artists, librarians, owners of bookstores, sales reps, editors. They were fascinating.
So Keely made the decision. “Fiona, I want to rent an apartment in the city.”
When she spoke the words aloud, a shiver of fear went down her spine, and part of her wanted to crawl back under her bed in her mother’s house, but she was a grown woman, a novelist! She wanted to live in New York.
Fiona helped Keely find a sublet for two years in a brownstone on the Upper West Side rented by a friend going off to Italy. Keely walked through the two small rooms, one with a view of the dumpsters in the alley, one with a view of the brownstones across the street, and liked it all. She signed a contract and wrote a check for security and first and last months’ rent—and she had the keys to her home in the city.
For her first few months in New York, Keely’s life was so full and rushed that she scarcely had time to sleep and no time at all to be lonely. Fiona was super sophisticated, very friendly, and at loose ends because she’d just broken up with her longtime beau. Melissa and Fiona took Keely to fabulous bars and introduced her to their friends, who welcomed Keely with rounds of tequila cocktails. Gradually, Keely felt at home there.
New York was brisk, exhilarating. Keely could feel the energy crackling around her. She walked constantly, everywhere, striding along the sidewalks with her hair tossing in the breeze, loving the sharp, cool surge of change that swept her up in its path. She visited museums, the important well-known ones and the lesser known small ones. She attended plays and concerts with friends. She entered bars by herself and sat alone, drinking a dry martini, people-watching, and sending selfies to her mother: Look at me, alone in a bar! The public library became her second home; taking her laptop, she left her tiny apartment for the generous warm glow of the library’s spacious rooms. On rainy days, she wandered through the grand department stores—Saks Fifth Avenue, Bloomingdale’s, Bergdorf Goodman, Barneys—pausing to study a coat or a dress, soaking in the look, learning how to upgrade her own wardrobe.
And then all at once it was the insanely marvelous month of June when Rich Girl, by Keely Green, hit the bookstands. Ransome & Hawkmore threw a party for her with lots of publishing people and a few minor celebrities and rivers of champagne. Keely signed books in the city and in surrounding suburbs, but she was most nervous about her return to the island in July.
She was invited by Mitchell’s Book Corner, her favorite independent bookstore, to do a signing. Flushed with pride and almost dizzy with amazement that her writing had been transformed into an actual book, a beautiful object in the world, Keely had called her mother and made plans to come for a week’s stay.
When Keely arrived at the airport, Eloise was there, waiting. She’d taken a day off work—an enormous concession for Eloise, given how busy the hospital was this time of year. Rosy-cheeked with excitement, Eloise treated Keely to lunch at Lola 41, where, she told her daughter, she felt like she was with a celebrity. People lunching at Lola spotted her and came over to say hello and congratulate her on her success. Keely drank champagne and dined on sushi. When lunch ended, she told her mother she wanted to walk home through town; she’d see her later.
Town was crowded with July visitors, the Atheneum garden was buzzing with children playing in the sun and shade, and the window boxes in town were vivid with color. Keely had sunglasses on, hoping not to run into anyone she knew. She wanted to have this walk through town all to herself. She wanted to soak in the atmosphere. She wanted to see her book in the window of Mitchell’s Book Corner.