The Last Book Party(25)

But now, imagining Lane and her father sitting on Henry and Tillie’s back porch and arguing about the merits of “postpainterly abstraction” as ice cubes slowly watered down their gin and tonics, I had never felt as much like an outsider.





17





Still awaiting edits on the latest chapters of his memoir, Henry continued to fire off notes to Hodder, Strike. I could tell by the way he slammed his fingers down on the keys of his old typewriter that he was writing as much to purge himself of his rage at Malcolm’s inattention as to discover when the edits in Malcolm’s trademark green ink would arrive. The first response that came from my replacement, during my second week on the job, exasperated Henry, who tossed the letter over his back in my general direction. I read it, pleased to see that it was neither helpful nor artfully written. But Henry was beside himself. “Eight months! You’d think after eight months, he might have the consideration to read a few chapters.”

Henry seemed so deflated that, without thinking about it, I offered to call Malcolm to see what I could do. He looked up at me with such a warm and handsome smile that for a moment I felt as if I was looking at Franny.

To have some privacy, I went downstairs to use the phone on the wall in the kitchen. As I was dialing, I noticed Tillie and Lane standing by the half circle of weathered Adirondack chairs that looked over the tennis court. Tillie held a piece of paper in one hand and shook it from time to time while Lane stood opposite with her arms folded. The conversation looked more heated than a disagreement over an awkward translation.

A young woman I assumed was Malcolm’s new secretary answered the phone as if she had been given the line to audition for a soap opera.

“This is Malcolm Wing’s office, and you have reached his editorial secretary, Jessica Blanken. How may I be of assistance?”

I walked over to the refrigerator, the long phone cord stretching out just enough for me to open it and retrieve the orange juice, and said, “Oh, hi, can you put Malcolm on? This is Eve.”

“Eve, and the last name would be…?”

I poured myself a glass of juice.

“The last name would be Rosen. I used to work for him.”

“Eve Rosen,” she said slowly, no doubt filling in the top page of a pink “While You Were Out” pad. “And to what may I say this is in reference?”

I sighed. “Don’t worry; he knows me well. It’s a personal call.”

I didn’t mention Henry, as I figured that by now Jessica would know how far down the list of importance he had fallen. Jessica put me on hold. Taking a sip of juice, I looked back outside. Tillie and Lane were laughing, their argument apparently resolved. The paper that Tillie had been holding was on the grass by her feet, and was then picked up and carried off by the breeze. The phone clicked and I heard Malcolm’s booming voice. “Cherub! How is life in the dunes?”

“Never dull,” I said, watching as Tillie turned and headed toward the driveway. Lane watched her for a few seconds and then started walking briskly back to the house. I turned so that I was facing inside.

I asked Malcolm to give me the truth about Henry’s chapters—was there any chance he would get to them this summer?

Lane walked right by me and into Tillie’s office. She looked at me without saying a word and closed the door behind her.

Malcolm clucked his tongue.

“Eve, Eve, Eve. Can’t you put him off as cleverly as you used to?”

“C’mon, Malcolm. I work for him now.”

I heard music coming from Tillie’s office.

“Indeed, and we feel so betrayed. Do we not?”

Lane was singing along; it was Bonnie Raitt.

“We? Are you using the royal we now?” I asked.

“Most certainly not,” Malcolm said. “We all miss you, pine for you helplessly. Don’t we, Jeremy?”

My stomach twisted. I was caught off guard by the news of Jeremy’s presence. I heard their muffled voices. Malcolm must have had his palm over the receiver.

“Scratch that. I spoke too hastily,” Malcolm said, his voice now clear. “Jeremy does not pine for you helplessly, which would be a silly indulgence. He has just informed me he will see you before summer’s end.”

I stepped outside, walking as far as the phone cord would allow.

“He will?” I asked.

“Yes, apparently your mutual friend has invited our young wunderkind to Henry and Tillie’s book party.”

So Franny would be returning for Labor Day weekend. I couldn’t help hoping that he was coming to see me, even if his complete lack of communication clearly suggested otherwise. Would he bring Lil? I cursed myself for feeling jealous.

“It’s a legendary party,” Malcolm continued. “I went once, but haven’t been on the guest list in years, which is probably my own fault, but nevertheless a shame, considering the concentration of literary talent there.”

I saw my opening.

“I might be able to finagle you an invitation, but you’ll have to return the favor.…”

Malcolm whistled. “I hear you loud and clear, sister.”

When I went back upstairs, Henry was writing in longhand on a yellow legal pad. Picking up my research notes as if looking for my place, I said, “So, have you thought about inviting Malcolm to the book party?”