The Last Book Party(32)

“Ooh, which one?” Barbara asked. “The bald one?”

My mother shook her head. “The other one. Don’t stare.”

Barbara turned to me. “That’s Henry Grey? I had pictured him so much older, and less handsome. I mean, he’s part of the old guard, but he barely seems as old as I am. And he’s already writing a memoir? That takes chutzpah.”

“He’s on the young edge of the old guard,” I said. I explained that Henry had started at The New Yorker right after graduating from Yale in 1955. “He’s been there more than thirty years already. He has a lot to tell.”

“If you’re interested in that kind of thing,” Ed said. “It’s only a magazine, for God’s sake, not a business that really changed the world like, say, Ford Motors. I have great respect for The New Yorker, and of course we subscribe. Have for years. Decades. But in my book, Manhattan, inc. is a much better read. More with the times.”

“Manhattan, inc. is with the times, but it’s not timeless,” I said, slightly annoyed.

My mother shook her head. “Let’s not get carried away, Eve.”

Barbara leaned toward the center of the table and said, “If timeless means the unread issues of the magazine stay in neglected stacks in the corner of your living room until the end of time, I’d say Eve is right. The New Yorker is timeless.”

I watched them all laugh, but I couldn’t let it go. “The magazine may be old-fashioned, but you can still find great writing in every issue. You can’t deny that it’s an institution.”

My father reached out and patted my hand.

“It’s not personal, Evie,” he said quietly.

I sipped my wine, backing out of the conversation as the talk turned to business gossip. From my seat, I had a perfect view of Henry, who appeared to be telling a story, his hands moving faster as he spoke. When his smile widened and he rested his hands on the table, I knew he was reaching the climax. Then everyone, including Henry, of course, and even Tillie, laughed loudly for a long time.

I was struck by how appealing Henry appeared and how much I wished I was at his table instead of with my parents and their friends. It was hard to look away. When I did, I had the distinct sense that Henry was watching me, but when I looked back, he was focused on trying to snap a bread stick in half. He succeeded, sending a spray of breadcrumbs onto the table, which Tillie immediately brushed away.

By the time we ordered dessert, I’d had two glasses of wine and had to go to the bathroom, which would take me right by Henry and Tillie’s table. I was unsure whether I should wave and keep walking or stop and say hello. As I approached their table, Tillie noticed me and beckoned me over.

“Look, Henry, it’s Eve,” she said, looking me up and down slowly. “Don’t you clean up nicely.” The way she spoke, it didn’t sound like a compliment. Tillie turned to Mark and his wife. “Mark, Ilana, you know Eve? Henry’s little helper?”

“Of course,” Mark said.

Ilana nodded and gave me a quick closed-lip smile.

Tillie glanced toward my table. “Your family? I didn’t know you dined out on Friday nights.”

I was too stunned to say anything. Was Tillie implying that she had expected us to be home lighting candles for the Sabbath? Henry, for once, was speechless. Tillie looked at him and waited for him to speak.

“Eve,” he said finally. “Good to know it’s not all work and no play for you.”

He was oddly awkward.

“I like to play,” I said, aware as soon as I spoke how childish the words sounded. Before Henry or Tillie could say more, I waved good-bye and went to the ladies’ room, wishing I had walked by without stopping to talk.

When I came out, Henry was leaning against the wall in the narrow hallway between the bathrooms, hands in his pockets as if he had nothing but time.

“So,” he said, nodding slowly. “You’re out in the world. It suits you.” His eyes scanned my dress. “You should dress like a grown-up more often.”

I felt my cheeks burn.

“I could say the same about you.”

It was the first time I had stood face-to-face with him as peers, rather than employer and employee. Now in heels, I was almost as tall as he was. His shirt made his eyes appear a deeper blue. He smelled faintly of sandalwood.

“What time do you turn into a pumpkin?” Henry asked.

“It’s the carriage that turns into a pumpkin. Cinderella turns back into … Cinderella.”

“And so she does,” he said with a grin. “So she does.”

I wanted to say something clever, but the way he was smiling at me made it impossible to think of anything intelligent.

I walked back to my table quickly, a little breathless from this new dynamic between Henry and me. My mother pointed her coffee cup toward a giant slice of carrot cake in the center of the table. “Here, we got you a fork.”





26





I was distracted and jumpy all weekend. When I arrived at work on Monday, Tillie’s station wagon was gone, but Henry’s Volvo sedan was parked in the driveway. Without stopping in the kitchen for coffee, I walked upstairs quickly, expecting to find Henry at his desk. But his office was empty, his desk bare. The house was quiet. Henry and Tillie must have gone out together. Disappointed, I forced myself to finish reviewing the latest pages of Henry’s memoir. It was hard to concentrate. I couldn’t stop thinking about the way Henry had looked at me outside the ladies’ room at Pucci’s. I tried to remember how I’d imagined him back at Hodder, Strike, when all I knew of him were his letters. It was like trying to conjure up a different person.