What Nora Knew (25 page)

He unpacked the paper bag, unveiling two plastic cups, a bottle of white wine, a popcorn bag and a box of Jujubes.

“You eat Jujubes?” I said.

“They’re my favorite food group,” he said.

During the movie we drank chardonnay. We passed Jujubes back and forth. I chided myself for not bringing floss. We watched Tom and Meg playing Sam and Annie. I could have recited half the lines. Sam on the telephone telling the radio psychologist about the first time he touched his wife’s hand and how he
knew.
Like magic. Annie sitting in her car on Christmas Eve listening to the radio and crying. Writing a letter but afraid to send it; Rosie O’Donnell mailed the letter. For the slightest moment, as I reached into the popcorn, still focused on Annie, my fingers grazed Cameron’s. A soft, scratchy warmth. Was I dreaming it? Did I imagine it?
Magic.
We looked at each other and smiled. The unspoken message:
This is nice
. Sam’s son, Jonah, picked Annie’s letter out of hundreds, choosing her as his future mother because she liked Brooks Robinson. I cringed when Sam dated the woman with the hyena laugh. Bill Pullman did remind me of Russell. I held Cameron’s baseball cap against my heart when Annie flew to Seattle and Sam sees her at the airport. She sees Sam across a street but gets scared and returns to New York and her Russell. But it’s Valentine’s Day and the world’s conspiring for her to fall in love. She says farewell to Bill Pullman and hurries to the Empire State Building and her destiny. She takes the risk. In the reflected light I could see Cameron’s profile as he concentrated on
the screen, captivated and transfixed, watching Sam finally meet Annie.

Okay. I cried. I always cry. I know what’s going to happen, but every time I cry. Jimmy Durante sings “Make Someone Happy.” The Empire State Building windows light up with a big red heart. Fireworks explode over an outline of the city. As the screen went dark, the audience applauded. It’s that kind of movie, the kind that makes you want to applaud. Couples hugged. Girlfriends exchanged wistful looks. The crowd behind us began to disperse, gathering their empty soda cans and popcorn bags, folding up blankets. The air felt fresher, clearer, and romantic.

Cameron handed me a napkin. Not a rose one. A regular one. I dabbed my eyes. Put his Reds cap on my head.

He stuffed our wrappers and cups into the brown bag. “Walk out to the railing?” he said.

“You can do that? Mike Bing won’t panic?”

“It’s dark. I can manage.” He smiled. “I need the practice. Before this summer’s up I will overcome my fear of heights.”

“Aren’t you cutting it a little close on the end-of-summer timeline?”

“I keep visualizing myself on the city’s tallest building.”

“That’d mean the Empire State Building. Sounds a bit ambitious.”

“Well, that’s what I imagine.” Cameron deposited the bag into a trash container; we walked to the end of the pier. We looked out toward the silent river, Cameron keeping his gaze
steady on the horizon, the streetlights and window lights of New Jersey.

“If you’re uncomfortable, stare at those blinding fluorescents off to the right.” I pointed across the river. “That’s a hospital.”

“Good to know.” His smile made me smile.

Other couples gravitated toward the rail, embracing and kissing, amid a rumble of soft voices and laughter.

I said, “You really do like
Sleepless
. When you said so, I thought you were just saying so.”

He nodded. “I like how there’s always a grand gesture in her films. Arranging to meet on Valentine’s Day. Tom bringing Meg daisies when she’s sick in
You’ve Got Mail
. Billy Crystal declaring love at the New Year’s dance. Grand gestures tell someone how you feel about them.”

“I like when Annie’s staring at the sky in Baltimore at the same time Sam’s staring at the stars in Seattle.” I looked up.

Cameron looked up. “No Manhattan stars,” he said.

“Nope. Just the usual weird vaporous glow, an occasional planet or flying saucer. Wouldn’t it have been great if Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan each saw the same flying saucer?”

“Molly?”

“Yes?” We stood facing each other.

“Take a deep breath, Molly.”

“A deep breath why?”

“If you’re done with flying saucers, this would be a perfect time to kiss.”

He placed his hands on my shoulders and I felt a kind of
chill, but it might have been from the wind off the river. I took a deep breath. We leaned closer, our lips centimeters apart. I stopped, leaned back. “Your expectations for a first kiss are pretty extreme. What if the kiss isn’t good?”

“We should find out,” he said. “It could be a real time-saver. And if it’s no good, we’ll be friends. Or colleagues.”

“Colleagues?”

“Yes.” He laughed. “We could have an office affair. Deirdre offered me a column.” He tilted his head toward mine again. I stepped back, out of his grasp, bumped into a couple behind me, excused myself, and turned back to Cameron.

“Column? You’ve got a column?”

He smiled his dopey, crooked smile, shook his head like
Isn’t life funny?
“We discussed it a couple of weeks ago,” he said. “She wants to announce it when she’s back from her vacation and start after Labor Day. Something edgy, daring; she sees it as an advertisable proposition. Wants to name it GuyEye.”

“GuyEye? What guy? You’re the guy? Are you stealing my column?” Cameron looked hurt and confused, but not as hurt and confused as I felt. “You don’t need a column! You have your novels. That’s
my
column!”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“This is not me joking. You stole my column! This—this—” I flailed my arm in the direction of the pier, the movie screen, the Hudson River, and all of New Jersey. “This is you being you making an idiot out of me! How could I buy into all this you-me-beneath-the-stars crap? You’re a salesman.
And a thief! Half the things you say or write about you’ve stolen, so why should I be surprised you’d steal my idea?
My
column. Or do you consider this a goddamn homage? ‘Don’t get upset, Molly. Isn’t it flattering when I rip off your concept, Molly! Nobody else complains to the beloved Cameron Duncan. Why should you, Molly?’ ”

By now, other people were watching.

I snatched Cameron’s baseball cap off my head and flung it out into the Hudson. Well, I thought I flung it. It landed three feet from the pilings and floated back toward the pier.

Cameron was gripping the railing with both hands, gaping down at the water. I don’t know if he looked unnerved from the height or unnerved by his hat’s sinking to its death.

“Thanks for the movie,” I said. “Enjoy your grand gesture!”

I stormed off, leaving him standing there alone, looking like
What the hell did I say?

Deirdre wasn’t halfway out the building and off to vacation before the headphones were off and the music cranked up. By the time her elevator hit the lobby floor, the photo editor and the traffic coordinator were conducting chair races in the aisles, spinning around the cubicles doing wheelies, while the interactive designers placed bets. Water guns appeared from nowhere, squirting over the walls in surprise attacks. All inner-office correspondence was conducted via paper airplanes. The
EyeSpy
employees were busting out like third graders throwing erasers at the substitute schoolteacher. Only there was no substitute teacher. Deirdre was so hands-on she’d never leave her responsibilities in anyone else’s hands. Instead, she
trusted
us.

I was the first to whip out the paper cups, contributing cheap vodka to the cheap wine, gin, and tequila that made
up the office makeshift bar. I was so crazy-mad upset about Deirdre giving Cameron my column idea that I couldn’t see straight. I was so drunk, I couldn’t see straight.

However, there was one happy sight in my blurred vision: Emily was packing up her cubicle. By day three of Deirdre’s vacation, around the time my headache cleared, Emily had made real progress with mowing through her hoard. “Free books, everyone!” she called out.

“It’s my mother’s birthday next week,” Santiago the videoconference engineer said. “What have you got?”

I could hear Emily and Santiago sorting through possibilities. “Does she bake? Does she have low-self-esteem issues? Is she interested in Henry Kissinger?”

“About time you cleared off that floor,” I called over the wall. “Your space has been an ongoing fire hazard!”

“Well, I’m off to be with my hunka-hunka burning love,” she called back. “If this joint burns down, don’t bother sending a postcard!”

Emily’s jubilant disposition was an affront to my miserable one. How was she able to have such faith in her Rory that she could toss her entire life into the air?

Somebody tossed a paper airplane into my office. It landed on the floor behind me so I didn’t see the pilot. I picked up the plane and read the note scribbled on the wing:
You okay?
I looked up to see Keith standing in my doorway. “May I?” He pointed to my chair.

“Sure.”

He sat. Cracked a few knuckles. Leaned forward with his
elbows on his knees and his hands clasped. If he were gray-haired and thirty years older, he’d look like a grandfather about to tell a bedtime story. “You’re not you the past week,” he said.

I looked over both of my shoulders to see what other me might be standing there and turned back to Keith. “Who am I usually?”

“Somebody with zest,” he said. “You’ve got no zest.”

“I’m zestless?” I didn’t realize I had zest, so how could I lose it? “I’m fine. I’m really fine, Keith. Thanks for your concern.”

“You have friends here. Other friends besides Emily. Try not to be so distraught about her leaving.” I didn’t say a word. There were no words. “And if you’ve got man problems, you can talk with me anytime. My wife has a nice cousin in Westchester if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“A cousin in Westchester. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Not that he’d want to meet a woman without zest, but I’m sure you’ll snap back.”

“Thanks, Keith, I’m glad we had this talk.”

He stood up, reached over, and patted me on the head, then asked, “Did you bring any vodka today? We’re running low.”

“I’ll pick some up at lunchtime.”

Keith walked out as I heard Emily saying, “Woo-hoo! Y’know, I
am
gonna miss this place!”

*  *  *

When Emily wasn’t handing out books, she was planning her good-bye party, making suggestions for where it should be held, hinting what she’d like as a good-bye gift, and bemoaning
that Deirdre was on vacation and nobody had thought to ask for a contribution to the gift fund before she left.

“Why do we have to go to all this fuss if you’ll still be reviewing books and writing your column?” I asked, raising my voice. I was at my computer researching a piece on New York pretzel carts.

“Who needs a stapler?” Emily called out. “You can’t have it until Friday, but first come first serve!” She popped up over my wall.

“I do not need your stapler,” I told her. “You are dismissed.”

“I have some books for you.”

“Thank you, Emily Literati, but I’ve got enough to read.”

She used two hands to hold up a book, making it dance along our ledge. “How’s this?” I read the title:
He’s Just Not That Into You.
Emily replaced it with a dancing
Anger Management for Dummies.
She laughed. “Just kidding!” she said. “Except about the dummy part. You’re not as smart as you think.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She disappeared. The photo editor, pushed by an art director, whipped past my cubicle on an office chair. Cocktail hour was about to start.

A pink-covered paperback came tumbling over the wall.
Heartburn.
By Nora Ephron. Followed by Emily’s paper rose.

*  *  *

Despite my numerous invitations (zero), I chose to spend the weekend holed up in my apartment feeling sorry for myself. So far, this was one hell of a summer. I’d broken up with my
boyfriend. Liked a guy I shouldn’t have liked. Lost a column I never had in the first place. And my nemesis Emily had squeezed fifty bucks out of me—along with everyone else at the office—for her farewell drinks and a new silk blouse. Who even wears silk blouses at a ski resort? Why didn’t she ask for a down vest?

Her party wasn’t half-bad, though a bit redundant after a week of debauchery in Deirdre’s absence. I hugged Emily good-bye. She hugged me good-bye. Like one of those scenes in the movies where mortal enemies find common ground just as it’s too late.

“We can skype,” I said to Emily.

“Why?” she asked.

“You’re right,” I said. “Why?”

Her parting words to me were “You’re a blind fool, Molly Hallberg.”

I didn’t ask her to elucidate, and it was too late to get my $50 back.

On Monday I’d tell Deirdre how mad—no, I’d say
disappointed
—I was about the column. Saying
mad
could get me fired, a scenario I hoped to avoid until I found a new job. Maybe I’d be a Rockette. My class was only two weeks away. Right in time to audition for the Christmas show. Who didn’t love Rockettes? And as a Rockette, I might even meet a new boyfriend. I heard Santa Claus is nice.

I was thumbing through the TV guide, planning my weekend activities, when Angela dropped by before leaving for the Catskills with her swim coach. She suggested maybe
I should go back to SpeedLove, only for real this time, as me, instead of undercover as Jeri Jacobs, and meet someone good. “I’d meet the same guys Jeri Jacobs met,” I said. “You got the one good one.”

Kristine called Saturday afternoon while on break at Bloomingdale’s. She groaned into the telephone. “The mattress salesgirl is dating a chiropractor.”

I was in my bathroom balancing the phone between my ear and shoulder and polishing my toenails, one foot up against the ledge of the tub. An accident victim waiting to happen. “How did you come upon this news flash?” I asked.

“She’s telling everyone. I think she’s having it printed in Sunday’s flyers.”

“And why’d you feel compelled to tell me this?”