Seven Days in June(59)

“I know there are no bounds to maternal love. I mean, hello? I read Mommy Burnout!”

“Who hasn’t?” said Eva, who hadn’t. “Audre, what do you think I did?”

“You…you…seduced that man, to keep me in school, didn’t you? You had sex with him for me. And I’ll never forgive myself!”

Eva was too astounded to formulate a response. And she didn’t have time, anyway—because the buzzer rang.

She’d forgotten. An hour ago she’d been embroiled in heavy text banter with Shane Hall, but the second she’d seen her daughter’s face, everything else had vanished from her mind.

Including the fact that Shane was on his way. And now he was here.





Chapter 18





A Series of Rash Decisions




CECE SINCLAIR HAD GREAT TASTE. EVERYONE KNEW IT. SHE WAS THE MOST powerful book editor at the most powerful publishing house. Everyone knew that, too. She was also an impeccable hostess, a terrifyingly focused doubles tennis player, and probably the most important advocate of Black and brown authors of her time.

She was many things (some might argue too many), but there was only one thing that kept her pulse racing, her complexion glowing, and her juices flowing. It was being a connector of dots. You needed the best tailor this side of the Hudson? She’d have you covered. You needed a last-minute plus-one to the Studio Museum in Harlem Gala? She’d have a dashing, out-of-work telenovela actor delivered to your doorstep in a tux by 5:30 p.m. Looking for a trainer? A donor egg? A direct route to Valerie Jarrett? Cece Sinclair was your woman.

Cece didn’t have all the answers. But she believed that she did. And it was of vital importance to Cece that her friends and associates, the greater literary community, and the finest Black families up and down the Eastern Seaboard believed it, too.

Right now, she was deep in thought in her Clinton Hill brownstone, sitting in her home office—which was beautifully furnished in a midcentury-lite aesthetic (funded mostly by her husband Ken’s salary as CEO and chief surgeon at Sinclair Reconstructive Surgery Arts). Sporting her casual-Saturday finest—a Proenza Schouler cinch-waist dress and Essie Ballet Slippers–painted toes—she was dead glamorous but also agitated. Because there were two dots she couldn’t connect.

There were several beats missing from this Eva and Shane story. Gaping holes. It was her job to know a fully fleshed-out, no-stone-left-unturned narrative when she saw it—and, ma’am, this wasn’t it. Cece knew good and goddamn well that Shane wasn’t just some sepia-tinted, nostalgic fling. No one was so undone by a fling that they were moved to write about it for their entire adult life.

Eva was withholding information. And it was driving Cece nuts. Shane wouldn’t talk, because Shane was an enigma. Eva wouldn’t talk, either, because she was an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in blackout curtains.

BANG! The sound reverberated through the apartment.

My nerves, she thought. How much longer will Ken subject me to this incessant clatter?

For the past five weekends, Cece’s husband, Ken, had devoted all his time to refurbishing their dining table. Hammering away. The banging set her teeth on edge, but she tried not to show it. He worked so tirelessly at his practice. Household projects were his happy place. Fine. She just wished Ken could find a quieter hobby.

Sucking her teeth, Cece abruptly stood up and began pacing. Ken always called her nosy, and while she pretended to be offended by it, she was nosy. And nosy women bristled at being left out of gossip. It made them irritable and prone to risky decisions made out of sheer desperation.

And, as desperation dictated, she’d throw a party. Tomorrow. A pre-awards party, to kick off Sunday’s Black Literary Excellence Awards. Everyone was already in town for the Litties and looking for trouble to get into. She was due to host one of her exclusive, membership-only soirees, anyway.

Yes, Eva claimed she’d “sooner die” than be trapped at the same party with Shane. But she was also the queen of standing in her own way.

Cece had known Eva since she was a lost nineteen-year-old. She’d more or less helped her grow up, and she felt responsible for her. Cece knew, better than anyone, that Eva was stuck in a rut—a book rut, a life rut, an everything rut—and death of inspiration was ruinous for a writer. Maybe she just needed a little push, to get out of her head. To break free! Cece would gift her with a gorgeous backdrop to properly reunite with her old flame—and hopefully get book inspiration out of it. And wasn’t her job as a book midwife to create a nurturing atmosphere to help her authors to create magic?

Shane would be the special guest. The literary blogs were buzzing; everyone wanted to catch a glimpse of him in real life. There wasn’t a lot of time to party-plan, but conveniently for Cece, her guests never expected her invites to be timely. The spontaneity was part of the fun. And the best part was that Cece could finally get answers. Shane and Eva were her writer children. And as their mama, she had a right to get to the bottom of their situationship.

BANG!

Ken’s been a wonderful husband. But five more minutes of this and I poison his LaCroix.

Cece perched atop her desk, her hostess brain whirring. She’d invite the usual suspects. She’d have to allow kids to come, to make it impossible for Eva to use the “no babysitter” excuse. It’d be fine; she’d corral them in a guest room with Shake Shack sliders, a babysitter, and the Disney Channel.