The Nest(26)

Over the years, Paul had had a few carefully selected lovers. They came and went, some more than once. He’d been married briefly, didn’t seem to have the knack for it, but he had loved Beatrice Plumb for nearly always. His love for her was quiet and constant, familiar and soothing; it was almost its own thing entirely, like a worn rock or a set of worry beads, something he’d pick up and weigh in his palm occasionally, more comforting than dispiriting. Paul suspected Bea would never love him, but he thought maybe, one day, she might let him kiss her. He was a very good kisser; he’d been told so often enough to have confidence in that skill and to know that a good kiss, perfectly timed, well executed, could establish inroads to far more interesting destinations.

He’d thought about kissing Beatrice for so many years that he knew he should probably never try, that the reality would almost have to pale in comparison to his many, many years of imagining the kiss and how it would unfold (in the back of a taxi on a sultry rainy night, on a stalled subway train as the lights flickered off, under the elegantly tiled archways of Bethesda Terrace as the sun was low in the sky, and his favorite: in the sculpture garden at MoMA, both so overcome by the lush, rotund Henry Moores that they turned to each other simultaneously, needing the same exact press of flesh at the same exact moment).

Paul had spent the past decade watching Bea’s light dim and it was troubling. Not only because he cared, deeply, about Bea as a writer and a person, but also because he suspected her slow fade played a part in his waning libidinous thoughts about her. He wasn’t attracted to failure; he preferred his women dedicated and ambitious. Bea had stopped talking about her book years ago. He never saw her sneaking time to write or even scribble on index cards or in a notebook. Some days he wanted to fire her, make her leave the office and do something else, anything else. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Bea seemed revived lately, there was something newly engaging and ardent about her. He’d overheard her make reference to a new writing project. He knew better than to ask; he’d wait for her to bring it up. He wondered if she’d shown Leo the new stuff yet. He hoped so because he would trust Leo’s opinion. If Leo thought whatever she was doing had potential, well, who knew? What could be more perfect for a newly expanded fiction imprint than the long-awaited debut novel by Beatrice Plumb. Anything she wrote would attract attention, along with the entity that published the work. Maybe he would pull Leo aside and ask if he’d heard or seen anything.

He could picture it perfectly: the publishing party at a local independent bookstore, Bea surrounded by an eager, appreciative crowd, her bright eyes and fluttering fingers, her long braids coiled and pinned up at the nape of her neck just how he loved. She would turn to him tender and eager with gratitude, flush with accomplishment, and he would touch her elbow, kiss her cheek as he’d done a thousand times before, but this time he would linger just a little longer, long enough for her to notice, a shadowy declaration. A first kiss in the book stacks. Now that was romantic.





CHAPTER NINE


The sole reason Bea Plumb agreed to accompany Paul Underwood to the dinner party at Celia Baxter’s on the Upper West Side, sure to be jammed with the exact type of people—writers, editors, agents—she couldn’t avoid at work but desperately tried to avoid at all other times, was because Celia was one of Stephanie’s closest friends from college. Celia was not of the publishing world, she was of the art world, but those worlds often collided, especially over cocktails. Bea hoped to see Stephanie at the smallish gathering in Celia’s intentionally stark and underdecorated apartment, which was only a few blocks—but worlds away—from Bea’s place; it would be easy for her to duck out if the event was unbearable.

Just past the new year, heading into the dreariest weeks of the calendar, almost three months since the Oyster Bar lunch, and Bea was still dithering about showing her new work to any of the three people (Leo, Paul, Stephanie) who could or should see it. After her phone call with Jack earlier in the week, she felt a new urgency. Jack said he was heading out to Brooklyn to see Leo. He was vague about why.

“Do I need a reason to visit my brother?” he’d said. “I want to see how he’s doing.”

“And?” Bea had asked.

“And, okay, I want to see what’s going on. Has he said anything to you?”

“No,” Bea’d said, trying to think of something to tell Jack that might assuage him but also be the truth. “He looks good.”

“What a relief,” Jack said, his tone sour.

“I mean he looks healthy. Alert and focused. He seems optimistic. He’s been hanging out with Paul. I think they’re working on something.”

“You’re joking.”

“Why would that be a joke?”

“This is his big plan? Working for that putz Paul Underwood?”

“I work for Paul Underwood,” Bea said.

“I realize that—and I mean this as a compliment—there are lots of things you would be willing to do that Leo wouldn’t.”

“I know.” Bea did know. Leo’s interest in Paul was bewildering. Paul seemed to believe Leo was working with Nathan Chowdhury again, but Bea found that unlikely. And Leo had never liked Paul. Ever. He’d called him Paul Underdog behind his back for years and had only shown a grudging kind of interest in Paper Fibres or what Bea did every day. He’d been visibly shocked to discover that Paper Fibres was a thriving publication. Not that she ever volunteered to talk about work; nobody was more dismayed than she was to find herself still going to the same office every day. Over the years, she’d managed to assume mostly managerial duties. She eagerly took on any job that removed her from working with writers and let Paul be the editing face of the magazine, which he loved. He still sought her input and shrewd pen, but those exchanges happened between the two of them, in private.