Emily & Einstein (15 page)

“Why?”

I blinked. “I have no idea.” Before he could say anything else, I stepped away. “So, I’ve seen every single Reager since time began … except you. Where is Uncle Max?”

It was the kids who heard and all three pointed out a different photo. Max in formal sailor’s garb. Max in combat gear. And one that surprised me: Max standing on a snow-covered peak that even I recognized.

“When did you climb Everest?” I asked.

“May.”

“This past May?”

“Yeah.”

“Doesn’t it take years of training to climb Everest?”

“Not for a Navy SEAL.”

“You and the SEAL thing.”

I started to probe, but the kids broke in. “Come on, play with us!”

But Lupe had come in, announcing dinner.

“No!” they said in unison.

“Chow time, sailors,” Max said.

The kids leaped into line and started to march like it was a game.

“Come on,” he said to me, “while the coast is clear.”

Out in the hall he walked me toward my apartment, but at the door he caught my hand. “I have something to show you.”

He pulled me up the stairs and I assumed he was taking me back to his apartment. My heart started hammering in my chest in a completely inappropriate way. But he kept going until we reached a door I had never seen before. It was unlocked, which surprised me, and then the next thing I knew we were stepping out onto the roof in the growing darkness.

“John Lennon did an interview up here once. They took his photo over there,” Max said, pointing to the thin railing that looked out over Central Park.

“Are we allowed up here?”

“Not sure. But hell—”

“You’d rather seek forgiveness than permission. That doesn’t seem like a Navy sort of attitude.”

He laughed, tugging me to the railing. “Let’s just say that I’ve fallen off the military wagon in more ways than just leaving my room a mess.”

The park spread out before us like black velvet surrounded by walls made of ornate limestone-and-sandstone apartment buildings, the lampposts that lined the roads lighting the way like diamonds.

“Up here you can forget the craziness of the city,” he said, looking out.

“Sort of like being on top of a mountain.”

He glanced at me, then smiled. “Yeah.”

We stood for a time, a quiet peace settling between us.

“So, you’re a mountain climber now?”

“No, but after I finished my last tour of duty, I needed … something different.”

I could feel the tension that settled through him.

“I figured what the hell. I’d climb Everest. It was sort of a whim.”

“Are you crazy?”

He was quiet for a second. “Probably. Which is why my family convinced me to come to New York. Spend time with the pack, then figure out what the hell I’m going to do with the rest of my life.”

“Have you figured it out yet?”

“Negative.”

I hardly knew him, but I realized even then that he didn’t strike me as someone who would let the chips fall where they may.

“Your turn,” he said.

“For what?”

“Telling me why you’re having a tough time.”

What amazed me was that I told him. I found myself explaining how my husband had died, about finding the journals, about how when Max found me in the courtyard I had just gotten an official letter from my husband’s estate regarding ownership of my apartment.

“Sounds like you need a lawyer,” he said. “I could hook you up with my sister Mary’s husband. I’m sure someone at Howard’s firm can help you.”

“I couldn’t impose.”

He turned to face me, turning me with him. “Hey,” he whispered, “I’ve strayed far enough from my SEAL days. Let me hold on to the knight gig.”

I laughed, though barely, the sound cut off when his gaze drifted to my lips. I could tell he wanted to kiss me, but whether it was the knight thing or something else, he wasn’t going to.

“No, really,” I whispered, my fingers curling into his shirt, despite better sense. “I couldn’t.”

He hesitated, unsure of what I was referring to. But then I tugged harder, and he leaned down, kissing me, a deep groan escaping him.

“God, I knew you’d feel like this,” he whispered against my skin. “I’ve wanted you from the first time I saw you.”

“Since I fell in the courtyard?”

He chuckled, then traced my lips with his tongue. “Since even before I saw you in the park. You were standing on the corner, staring without seeing.”

“You’re attracted to demented and clearly lost older women?”

“I’d hardly call you an older woman. And never demented.” He stopped kissing me and looked down into my eyes. “But lost, yes. It was like looking at someone I used to be. That’s how I know you’ll survive.”

I could feel his hands on my back. “What did you survive, Max?”

It looked like he would let go and move away.

“Please. I shared my life with you.”

After a second, he sighed. “Who the hell knows? Afghanistan? Iraq? Everyone’s heard the story thousands of times, by now. And I got off easy.”

“How’s that?”

“I’m still alive.”

When I would have questioned him more, he kissed me again. I didn’t press this time.

His hands came up and framed my face, his fingers extending into my hair. His mouth lined my own, his teeth nipping. It seemed impossible for such a big man to be so gentle. I could have kissed him forever. But eventually the old me, the one who was sane, pushed away. I was a widow with more problems than I knew how to handle. I didn’t need another one in the form of a man who clearly had his own stuff to deal with.

“Thanks for the offer of a lawyer. But I’ll get it straightened out.”

Then I slipped away, back through the door I had never seen before.

chapter fifteen

No matter where we lived, my mother loved giving parties. It didn’t matter if we only had four walls and a shared bathroom down the hall. She had to have people around her.

My mother filled her parties with a menagerie of New York’s offbeat and off-the-grid intellectuals. There was Willa, my mother’s best friend, and an assortment of people she knew from WomenFirst, including a man Mother called the Professor because he spoke almost entirely in famous quotes. Mother teased him that he didn’t have an original thought in his head. He countered by throwing more quotes at her, after which they’d argue, then end up in bed. That is, if there wasn’t some other man at the party she liked better.

The revelers drank and talked about the state of the world, my mother charming them all with her alluring mix of sharp wit and wildness. For the short period of time that my mother was married to Jordan’s father, the parties were tamer. But the marriage didn’t last long, and soon it was just the three of us. Mother continued to fight her battles; Jordan was the precocious one; and I served as hostess for the motley assortment my mother called her friends.

One night a woman arrived that I hadn’t seen in a while, a woman I had always loved. I took coats and made sure everyone had their drinks, and when I handed her a martini she looked at me closely then laughed.

“Every time I see you you’re more grown up,” she said, and looked around for my mother. “No wonder you don’t need a husband, Lillian. You’ve got Emily to take care of all the things you don’t like to do.”

My mother looked at me across the room. I couldn’t read her expression. The set of her mouth wasn’t quite a frown, but it wasn’t a smile either.

“Yes, she plays the perfect caretaker. But I wonder, is that what you really are, Em? Or are you hiding what you really want to be?” She paused. “Please tell me a daughter of mine wants to be more than a housewife and hostess.”

Her friends laughed. “Good God, Lillian, don’t ride her for being good at something you couldn’t do to save your life.”

Mother’s features cemented. After a moment, she shrugged and then she did smile, lifting her glass in salute, though I had no idea if it was some strange acknowledgment of my success or her defeat.

*   *   *

The day after Tatiana cornered me in the ladies’ room, I got a phone call from the assistant of a woman named Hedda Vendome of Vendome Children’s Books. Bold, daring, loud, Hedda ruled with flare in children’s publishing, a world where most people were quiet and conservative. She got away with it, no doubt, because she managed to publish more award-winning young adult and picture books than anyone else in the industry. And she wanted to have lunch with me.

I accepted more out of surprise than anything else. Back in the days of my mother’s living room parties, it was Hedda who had looked at me closely when I handed her the martini.

I hadn’t seen her in years, though I had seen a photograph or two in the newspaper. While I was almost certain she was sixty-five if she was a day, she swore she was only sixty and dressed like she was forty. Not that any of this mattered. But it was rare in the age of publishing conglomerates to still have people in any sector who were grander than the characters they published.

We met at Michael’s on West Fifty-fifth Street. Most people in publishing had been to Michael’s at one time or another; many of the movers and shakers in media ate there regularly. Hedda had her own table.

The maître d’ seated me before Hedda arrived, giving me a chance to survey the crowd and attempt to put well-known names with faces.

Hedda entered with a flourish, stopping along the way to air kiss and say hello. When she got to me I swallowed back the inclination to stand and curtsy.

“My, my, my,” she said, her voice gravelly from too many years of cigarettes. She was a throwback to a day long gone, her hair dyed red, her eyebrows penciled on. “You don’t look a thing like your mother. Thank God.”

She laughed, leaned over, and gave me a short crisp hug. “I haven’t seen you since you were in school clothes serving dry martinis to your mother’s cohorts. God, I miss those days. Waking up in the morning invigorated, ready to fight the good fight. And for so long your mother was on the front lines. How I admired her.”

She paused, then to my surprise she cupped my cheek, looking me in the eye. “But I’m certain she was hell to live with.”

My breath must have caught, and she dropped her hand away.

“But enough about me and my opinions on your mother. Let’s talk about me and my opinions on everything else!”

Hedda fell into her seat with a dramatic sigh. “What I’d give for a martini and a cigarette right now. Alas, my doctor doesn’t allow the gin, and the mayor doesn’t allow the cigarettes. Men.”

She laughed so loudly heads turned. At the sight of Hedda, many smiled. I realized quickly that you couldn’t help but love Hedda Vendome.

“So tell me, darling, how are you? Tell me everything. How is your horrid job at Caldecote? What do you think about Tatiana Harriman?”

I couldn’t imagine that she needed inside information from me. Hedda was known for her inside connections.

“Well—”

“Don’t bother. I already know. If I were twenty years younger and had breast implants I would
be
Tatiana Harriman.”

She ordered for both of us, Cobb salads with a side order of Michael’s famous frites.

She talked of inconsequential things through the meal, introducing me to everyone who came over to the table.

“Lord, how I miss the early days with your mother,” she said when the waiter took her plate away. “She knew how to get things done. Crafty little bird, true, but she knew what she was talking about.” Hedda toyed with her water glass. “Which is why we are here.”

“We’re here because of my mother?”

“Indirectly. I hear you have a good eye for what works in publishing.”

Clearly she hadn’t heard about
Ruth’s Intention
—or my recent bouts of not doing any work at all.

“I’ve had my moments,” I said. “But I’m in adult publishing.”

“Ah, but I am friendly with Libby Meeker.”

“From Meeker Books?”

Over the years, I had spent more time than I should in Libby’s famous children’s bookstore searching for books to add to my collection.

I don’t remember exactly when books became my refuge, but it was in the pages of a world created out of thin air that I began to find pieces I recognized as myself. In books I found characters so real that they were more my friends than the children with whom I went to school. In the stories I loved, I found adults wiser than the ones who laughed and argued in my mother’s living room.

“Libby tells me you understand children’s books. While you might not have actual experience in the area, I am willing to take that risk. I want you to come to work for me at Vendome.”

Things might be dicey at Caldecote, but going into kids’ books was no solution. If nothing else, I didn’t have the energy to start over, especially in children’s publishing, which couldn’t be more different from publishing adult books.

“I’m flattered, but—”

“Don’t answer me now. Of course it’s a shock. But it’s the right thing to do. Think about it.”

An assistant raced in. “We’ve got to go, Ms. Vendome. The car is waiting.”

All the larger-than-life airs disappeared and Hedda reached across the table. “I heard about your husband.” She squeezed my hand. “I’m so very sorry.”

*   *   *

I arrived back at the office in a daze. I hadn’t been back long enough to set my handbag down when I was summoned by Tatiana.

“So,” she said without preamble. “How was lunch?”

She knew about lunch? Though why I was surprised might have been the bigger mystery. Tatiana Harriman couldn’t have gotten as far as she had without her ear to the ground.

“It was fine, thank you.”

Tatiana looked me over, and proceeded slowly.

“I do not appreciate the fact that the minute I arrive you go to lunch with a competitor.”

“Hedda? A competitor? She’s in children’s publishing.”

“Then it’s true. You had lunch with Hedda Vendome.”

I felt like I was playing a new version of chess that didn’t come with rules. “Yes. How did you know?”

“I have a friend at Random House who loves to gossip. He couldn’t dial his cell phone fast enough to let me know that someone on my staff was already trying to jump ship. Though I certainly didn’t expect you’d be the one who got people speculating that the troops were unhappy. The fact that Hedda is in children’s publishing makes it even worse. My employees are so unhappy they’re willing to jump to something so different, so beyond the scope of adult publishing…” The words trailed off and she pursed her lips like she was swallowing back anger.