The Last Book Party(39)

We walked over to tables of sweatshirts, Tshirts, and socks, but Henry seemed to have lost interest, to have forgotten his ostensible reason for coming to the flea market in the first place. “So no socks?” I said, holding up a pair of white tennis socks.

“I don’t need socks.”

I sorted through a pile of Tshirts with silly slogans, looking for one that might amuse Henry. I held up one that read GAG ME WITH A SPOON, which Henry had recently declared “an unfortunate and classless expression.”

“How about this, then?” I said. “Your favorite.”

He looked pained to see the slogan and walked toward a table of discounted windbreakers, which he sorted through as if looking for his size. I caught up with him and asked if he was OK. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, I ran my finger beneath the hem of his shorts.

But without looking at me, he said, “I should get back. I’ve been gone long enough. We’ve got people coming for mixed doubles.”





32





I was unsettled the rest of the day by Henry’s brusque departure from the flea market. When the phone rang late that afternoon and I overheard my mother saying that she’d see if she could find me, I had the hopeful thought it was Henry calling to say he was sorry, though he had never called our house before and didn’t really have anything to apologize for.

Perhaps more surprising, it was Jeremy. He cut right to the chase, explaining that he’d gotten my number from Malcolm and that he was calling to ask if he could stay at our house when he came up to the Cape that weekend for the book party. He would be catching a ride with Malcolm, who would be staying with friends in Provincetown.

“It’s only two nights,” he said. “I assumed I’d being staying at Franny’s, but I couldn’t reach him in Maine and when I called Henry and Tillie’s place just now, Tillie suggested I find somewhere else to stay. She said their house is going to be overrun with guests.”

I wrapped the phone cord around my finger and then unwound it.

“That’s so kind of you,” Jeremy said, in answer to my silence. “Are you sure you don’t want to give it a little more thought?”

“I didn’t say no,” I said, wishing that I had. Jeremy was so unpredictable, I was worried it would be awkward to be together with him and my parents. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to convince Franny to let you stay? I can’t imagine they can’t find a place for you to sleep.” Wasn’t he like family to them?

“Like I said, the house is full. Plus, Franny’s coming with Lil. How can I say this?” He paused. “She takes up a lot of space. She’s been known to air-dry her diaphragm on the windowsill. In the kitchen.”

We laughed, and I was reminded of the appealing side of Jeremy’s bluntness. He may not be open, but he was honest. I told him I’d check with my parents and get back to him.

I found my mother in the living room scrutinizing the couch, which she had been complaining was uncomfortable since it had arrived at the beginning of the summer. Its purchase had been a rare misstep; she was a good decorator who insisted on balancing comfort and design.

“For the life of me, I can’t figure it out,” she said, shaking her head. “I know this couch. I’ve ordered this couch for clients. It was a sure thing. It must be a manufacturing flaw.”

I flung myself onto the couch on my stomach, sinking into the soft linen cushions.

“It’s not bad like this,” I said.

She pushed aside my legs and sat down on one end.

“It’s not meant for that. It’s meant for conversation.”

I turned over and sat up. She was sitting stiffly, like a well-bred Victorian woman trained never to let her spine touch the seat back.

“Relax,” I said.

“Watch what happens,” she said. She leaned back and sunk into the cushions, her body slumped down like a rag doll. She flung an arm up and waved it around. “I can’t even hold a drink or reach for an appetizer.” She pushed herself up. “This was an enormous mistake.”

“Speaking of mistakes,” I said, sitting up, “a guy I know, a Hodder, Strike author, asked to stay here over Labor Day weekend. He’s coming up for Henry and Tillie’s book party. Would it be okay if he stayed here, just for two nights?”

“A writer?” my mother said. The offense of the couch forgotten, she looked at me expectantly. I knew where this was going. “What’s his name?”

“Jeremy Grand. Né Greenberg.”

“Jewish!” She slapped her hands on her thighs. “How interesting. How old is he?”

I shrugged. “Older than I am, younger than thirty. Arrogant beyond his years.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but I cut her off.

“No, he’s not a romantic interest.”

She smiled at me and shook her head. “Oh, Eve—never say never. A bookish girl like you—you could be a wonderful muse to a writer.”

The thought of my inspiring Jeremy was almost absurd enough for me to be able to overlook the slight in her words. My mother asked about Jeremy’s book, and I told her the truth—that I thought it was original and beautiful. I said it would probably be a big success. She clasped her hands together.