The Nest(24)
Paul valued routine and habit. He ate the same breakfast every day (a bowl of oatmeal and an apple) and then went for a morning walk along Fulton Ferry Landing. On weekdays he never deviated from his route, becoming an expert chronicler of the waterfront in all its seasonal mutations. Today the wind was fierce, battering the hearty souls brave enough to be outside; he leaned into it, pitching himself forward and wrapping his scarf more tightly around his neck. He loved the river, even during the grim New York winter, loved its steely gray shimmer and menacing whitecaps. He never tired of the view of the harbor; he always felt lucky to be exactly where he was, the place he’d chosen to belong.
As he headed toward the far edge of Fulton Ferry Landing, Paul saw Leo Plumb’s familiar figure sitting on one of the benches closest to the water. Leo and Paul had taken to walking together every so often. Leo looked up and waved. Paul picked up his pace. He’d actually begun to look forward to the days when Leo would join him at the bench. Stranger things had happened, he supposed.
PAUL HAD BEEN LIVID when SpeakEasy magazine folded and Leo hadn’t invited him to help start the website that would eventually grow into SpeakEasyMedia. Leo hadn’t taken everyone from the print magazine, but he’d taken those generally considered the sharpest, the most desirable, and Paul had always believed himself to fit squarely in that category. Maybe he wasn’t the most talented writer, the most fearless reporter, but he was reliable and capable and ambitious and shouldn’t all those things count for something? He met deadlines, his copy was pristine, and he pitched in where needed even when it wasn’t his responsibility. He did everything you were supposed to do to earn the things you wanted. He was nice.
That no one else was surprised Paul wasn’t going with Leo was also a blow. He kept waiting for the shocked looks, the crooked finger beckoning him behind a closed door, “Leo isn’t taking you?” When it didn’t happen, he realized nobody else considered him prime pickings either.
He’d mustered the nerve to ask Leo about it once. “Underwood, this is not going to be your scene,” Leo’d said, putting a heavy palm on Paul’s shoulder and holding his gaze in that way Leo had, the way that made you simultaneously flattered to command his full attention and slightly brain addled, unable to capture a train of thought. “You would hate it. You’re an in-depth feature guy. I wouldn’t do it to you. And I’m paying peanuts.”
Paul comforted himself with Leo’s explanation for a while. He probably would hate gossip; it was true that Paul specialized in the longer cultural pieces. And he wasn’t willing to work for nothing. But then Paul discovered that Leo had hired Gordon FitzGerald as content editor at the new SpeakEasy. Gordon wasn’t any more interested in short form or gossip than Paul, and he was sure Gordon wasn’t working for peanuts. Paul had supervised Gordon—he’d recruited him!—and he knew that Gordon was nothing but trouble, a drunk and a world-class dick. For months after Leo left, Paul freely offered his opinion of the new venture: “Dead in the water in six months.” He had, of course, been preposterously wrong.
Paul didn’t know what had happened to land Leo in rehab because the public details were sketchy and Bea was closemouthed. He’d heard rumors about a car accident out in the Hamptons. Leo’s wife, Victoria, had been seen around town with a number of high-profile dates. Leo seemed to be shacking up (again) with Stephanie Palmer in Brooklyn. His Porsche was gone.
When Leo appeared in his offices one morning in November ostensibly looking for Bea, Paul didn’t think anything of it. But Leo was there for hours, nosing around Paul’s office, asking questions about issue scheduling, advertising deadlines, print sales, subscriptions, finances. He wanted to know about the magazine’s online presence (slim), writer relationships (robust), and how Paul would expand if he could—“If you had all the funding you wanted?”
And then Paul thought he understood. “Nathan sent you here,” Paul said. “You two are working together again.” It made sense; they used to be partners and Paul thought his recent meeting with Nathan had been promising. Leo held Paul’s gaze in a way that seemed significant and said, “Officially? No. Officially? This is just a friendly visit.”
“I see,” Paul said. He didn’t see but hoped to God that Leo was there on unofficial-official Nathan business. At one of the countless holiday parties he’d attended in December—he couldn’t even remember which one, they all blurred, all the cheap Prosecco and waxy cubes of cheese and gluten-free cupcakes—one of his old SpeakEasy colleagues mentioned that he’d heard Nathan was thinking about starting a literary magazine—or investing in one.
“As a write-off?” Paul asked, unable to imagine any other reason.
“I think it’s more of an ego thing,” his friend had said. “Something respectable and highbrow to balance the other stuff.” The other stuff, Paul knew, referred not just to the gossipy lowbrow nature of SpeakEasyMedia’s online presence, but to the soft-core porn site that generated most of the company’s revenue.
“Any idea who he’s considering?”
“None. You should call him. The money he’s willing to throw at someone is chump change for him but probably massive by your standards.”
Paul had been on the phone scheduling a meeting the next day. Keeping Paper Fibres afloat sometimes felt like trying to cross the Atlantic Ocean in a leaky skiff. He was constantly plugging one hole, just to have another appear and then another and he felt like the whole venture was going to sink more times than he cared to think about.