The Last Book Party(14)

“Is this lobby really big or is it just an illusion?” I said.

Jeremy shrugged. “I think they decorated it to make it appear large enough to justify the high rent.”

I didn’t know what else to say, so I just sat there, not realizing that I was staring at Jeremy until he asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I just can’t figure out if you are less intimidating now that I know you’re a Greenberg or more intimidating for having had the nerve to change your name.”

“More intimidating,” he said. “Definitely.”

Within a few minutes, the rest of the party arrived and we joined them in a boisterous elevator ride up to the apartment of Callie Calhoun, the most senior of the junior publicists, who had recently moved in with her boyfriend, Clint, a bond trader.

“The next course is ready and waiting,” she said, ushering us from the elevator to her front door in heels that struck me as ridiculously high for an evening of traipsing around Manhattan.

The apartment was vast and sparsely furnished. In the living room were two buttery leather couches, a dark green recliner, and a glass coffee table perched on what looked like two tree stumps. The hallways were decorated with huge framed photographs of someone—presumably Clint—skiing, golfing, and surfing in beautiful locales. The action shots looked like cover photos from Outside magazine.

Staring at the photographs with his arms folded, Jeremy said, “These tell the story of a manly man, a true American.”

“A masturbator of the universe.”

Jeremy laughed. “Did you really just say that?”

“Apparently, I did. You know, like masters of the…”

“I get it.”

Callie, who had disappeared into the kitchen when we arrived, walked into the living room with a large oval tray of tiny plastic cups filled with a jewel-toned assortment of cubes.

“Our next course is served,” she said, placing the tray on the table. “Jell-O shots!” Guests quickly swarmed around the table. Jeremy asked my favorite color and then elbowed his way toward the shots. He emerged holding three red cups in each hand.

“Three?” I said.

“One is a shot. Two is a snack. Three make a course.”

“Are we really going to have to find our way to yet another apartment before we get some food?” I asked, looking around the room for something to eat. “I hate to do this on an empty stomach.”

“In Russia, when there’s no food to go with the vodka, they smell something pungent, like a wool sweater or some hair, to trick the stomach,” Jeremy said.

“Does that work?”

“I have no idea.” He leaned toward me and gently lifted the hair from below my shoulder and brought it to his nose. With his head bent down, I could smell his curls, which had the faintest scent of citrus. When he lifted his head, the ends of my hair resting loosely in his fingers, his face was close to mine. He looked appealingly unguarded.

“Where’d you learn that?” I asked.

“My father was born in Moscow. Learned it from his father.” He twisted his fingers gently through my hair.

“Grandpa Greenberg?”

Jeremy gripped my hair a little tighter and gave a gentle tug.

“The very one,” he said, letting my hair go.

Jeremy downed his shots one after another. “As bad as I remember,” he said. He cocked his head toward me and pointed to his hair. “Want to do it à la Russe?”

I leaned in, took a quick sniff of Jeremy’s head, and then raised a plastic cup in the air, eager to feel the effect of the vodka.

“To Grandpa Greenberg,” I said, and swallowed the cold shot.





9





I didn’t realize how tipsy I was until we left Callie’s building to head to the next stop of the evening, which was in an apartment at Waterside Plaza, down in the east Twenties.

Out on the sidewalk, Callie and some of the others were debating too loudly whether it made more sense to take the subway to Twenty-Third and walk east or to take the bus down Second Avenue.

I turned to Jeremy and said, “Can we just take a cab? I’m starving.”

I stayed close to him as we walked to the corner and he peered uptown, looking for a taxi coming down Second Avenue. I watched Jeremy, thinking about how easy it would be to lean over and rest my head on his shoulder. A Checker cab pulled up, and Jeremy opened the door and waited for me to slide to the other side. I flipped down the jump seat and rested my feet on it.

Jeremy gave the driver the address and we careened down Second Avenue, slamming over pot holes, swerving to pass slower cars, and flying through traffic lights just before they changed from yellow to red. “Whoa, this car is going way too fast,” I said, closing my eyes. “It’s making my head spin.”

Jeremy leaned forward and politely asked the driver to slow down a bit. His voice at that moment reminded me of his writing. I still couldn’t put together the richly imagined world of his novel with the cagey guy from New Jersey sitting beside me.

“May I ask you one question?” I said, forgetting my earlier reticence to let on that I’d read his manuscript. “I’ve been wondering. I mean, I loved your novel and it all rings true, amazingly true, but I can’t help wondering, why leprosy? Who even thinks about that anymore? What was the connection?”