The Last Book Party(57)

Malcolm stepped up to a podium on the landing of the wide staircase and clinked a pen against his champagne glass. Surveying the crowd with impressive calm and an air of ownership, he raised his glass.

“Please join me in welcoming a remarkable new talent,” he said, beaming toward the bottom of the steps, where Jeremy stood, hands in his pants pockets and shoulders hunched, looking more bar-mitzvah boy than up-and-coming novelist. Beside him, Mary nudged him gently. Jeremy thrust back his shoulders. He walked up to the podium, cracked open his book, and smoothed the pages with his hand.

Jeremy read slowly, his voice gradually settling into the rhythm of his prose. He looked up from time to time, the words seeming to give him confidence, to make him stand a little taller. I got lost in the narrative once again. He read my favorite scene, near the end, when the doctor’s son stands inches from Sarita and holds up his palm. She lifts her trembling hand and holds it like a mirror to his. They never touch, but their gesture pulses with lust and longing.

I exhaled and, as I did, Jeremy looked up. He hesitated when he saw me, then continued to the end of the chapter. The applause seemed to break whatever spell had calmed him enough to read confidently. His cheeks reddened as he nodded his head and stepped down from the podium.

I knew Jeremy would find me eventually, so I leaned against the tall rolling ladder at the bookshelves marked MEMOIR and drank a glass of wine, watching the crowd. Jeremy made the rounds, shaking hands, smiling politely. Finally, he was standing in front of me. He looked timid, which came as a relief and suggested that his conscience had kicked in since last summer.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not here to expose you.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Congratulations. It’s a really good book.”

I lifted my glass for a toast. He touched his drink gently to mine and watched me take a sip.

“Thanks,” he said. “I know.”

“Did you not get the memo that young writers are supposed to be deeply twisted and insecure?” I asked.

“I did, and I am.”

I looked around the store.

“Quite a party,” I said. “I guess none of the Truro crowd is here?”

He shook his head.

“Not a chance. They don’t speak to me. I got a letter from Henry last year that said he wouldn’t interfere with my ‘so-called literary career’ but that he had no interest in further communication.”

“That must hurt,” I said. “I know how much they meant to you.”

“Yeah, well, that’s over anyway,” Jeremy said. “The house is for sale. Tillie and Lane are back in Rome. Franny is living with Lil in Maine. Planning to stay there. He told me he’s finally starting to deal with his parents’ self-absorption.”

That surprised me.

“And Henry?”

I had seen Henry only once, a week after the book party, when I’d gone to his house to say good-bye before he left for New York. He’d shuffled around his office packing boxes the whole time I was there, seeming embarrassed and determined to keep our conversation from anything personal. He handed me a check for my last wages, which put our relationship on a transactional footing that felt worse than his silence. I hadn’t known what to say, so I’d thanked him and said I was sorry. He hadn’t asked for what. He wished me luck and kissed me on the cheek before turning back to emptying his desk of papers.

“Henry’s still working on his memoir,” Jeremy said. “He insisted on revising the sections about his marriage, which is understandable considering everything that happened. From what I hear, it’s not going well. Malcolm might pull the plug.”

I knew that Henry was struggling. Early last spring, long after I was settled in Florida, I’d gotten a letter on that stationery with the engraved initials I knew so well. He had tried to sound casual, asking if I wanted to tap into my “inner archaeologist” and excavate him from the landslide of notes in which he was buried. I’d been relieved that I wasn’t tempted, but sad to think of him as lonely and adrift.

“So what’s next for you?” I asked Jeremy.

“Not sure. I was asked to teach a seminar at Sarah Lawrence.”

“Not an ethics class, I presume?”

“Ouch,” he said, pretending that he’d been stabbed in the chest.

“Sorry,” I said, meaning it. “Old habit.”

“It’s OK. I deserved it.”

Tentatively, in a way I found endearing, Jeremy told me he was working on a new novel based on his parents’ experiences during the war. He was undertaking massive research, about his ancestors and the displacement camps and his parents’ years in Israel before they came to America and settled in New Jersey.

“That’s bold,” I said. “Really.”

“It’s completely terrifying.”

“Honesty becomes you,” I said.

He looked a little embarrassed.

“And you? Are you really working as a newspaper reporter?” he asked.

“A regular Brenda Starr,” I said. I braced myself for a snide comment about journalism.

“Is that what you want?” Jeremy asked.

“It’s a start. The deadlines are making it impossible for me to not finish.”

“Then I’m happy for you.”