Summer at Castle Stone

Later, I took the L train up to Hank’s, stopping in at Zabar’s to pick up a pound of Nova lox to bring with me. I knew it was kind of silly. He always hired caterers to do the food for his brunches. Gourmet fish wasn’t within my budget, either, but it was my father’s favorite and I wanted to make him happy.

Hurrying up the block on West End Avenue, I spotted the weekend doorman, smoking out by the curb, semi-crouched behind a parked van. Noticing me, he rushed to throw down his cigarette, and rushed back under the pre-war canvas awning that ran the length of the carpeted walkway that lead to the glass-paned double doors at the apartment building’s entrance. It was painted with the words The Witherspoon. The font seemed old-fashioned to me when I was growing up there, but had now taken on a retro-hip quality. I shuddered to think what new tenants, without rent-controlled leases, paid for the three-bedroom apartments complete with maid’s rooms, formal dining rooms, and high ceilings today. Not that Hank couldn’t afford it.

“Miss Shayla! How nice to see you. You never come around anymore.”

“I’m pretty busy, Dmitry. Got bills to pay and all,” I was rushing in, worried I’d be late.

“Well, your dad misses you.”

I stopped. “Did he say that?”

“No, he didn’t say that in those words,” Dmitry answered, popping a mint, “but he’s your dad! He must. Right?”

I headed in. “Right. By the way,” I called over my shoulder, “Don’t toss away a cigarettes on my account. I’ll never rat you out.”

“You are a beautiful girl, Miss Shayla!” I heard him call as the elevator doors closed. Yes, that’s me, I thought, beautiful. Wowing the over-60 crowd. It would be nice to hear that from a man who wasn’t paid to say it.

I knocked on the door, even though I have a key. I’d walked in on more than one half-dressed woman in the last decade, and I didn’t need a shock on top of my bad-date hangover. The door swung open, and Hank said, “Oh, Shayla. It’s you. There are Bloody Marys in the kitchen.” He headed over to the docking station and fiddled with the music. Soon, Django Reinhardt was twanging out of the surround-sound speakers.

“I brought you some lox,” I said. He didn’t answer. To be fair, his hearing wasn’t what it used to be. “I’ll just put it on a platter.” I swung through the heavy wooden door to the kitchen, and came face-to-face with Brenda Sackler. She was pouring extra vodka into one of the pre-made drinks on the sideboard.

“Oh! What a surprise. Hello, Brenda.”

“Shayla!” she barked. I don’t think she’s capable of whispering. “Imagine seeing you here.” Was that a command? A pleasantry? She leaned over and slurped the top of her too-full drink. “Huh!” She plunged a long stalk of celery into it and swung out the door, leaving me hanging.

While I was plating the fish and making myself a virgin cocktail, I heard the bell ring a few times and the murmur of voices growing louder as the number of guests grew. Hank told me it was going to be a small party. I didn’t feel very social. I wished it were just him and me eating bagels in front of the TV, like it used to be when I was young. Him in that flannel bathrobe, me in my jams. I made myself push out into the dining room to mingle.

About a dozen people stood or sat in pairs and trios. Looking around, I took in the faces. Aside from Brenda, there was no one there whom I knew personally, though I recognized a couple of people. Hank always drew an eclectic crowd. There was that hot young Canadian actor/producer/director, and that columnist from The Atlantic, and a guy I was pretty sure was Hank’s bookie. I put both halves of an everything bagel on a plate, and dressed it up with scallion cream cheese, capers, and my lox. Then, I piled on sliced red onion. What the hell. I had no one to kiss.

“I admire that you’re a feminist,” a young woman said, pointing at my brunch. I looked at my bagel, then looked at her. “What?”

“Eating whatever you want. I think it’s great!” I scanned her face, sussing out whether she was joking.

“Carbs!” she stage-whispered.

Involuntarily, I checked her plate. On it sat baby carrots and pepper strips from the crudité platter, and a brown lump that resembled nothing on the table. She saw me looking.

“Oh, this. I pack my own food. You know.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Gluten,” she stage-whispered. Who did she think was going to hear us?

“Excuse me,” I said, heading for the kitchen, this time for a full-octane Bloody Mary. The situation screamed out for ‘hair of the dog.’

“Wait! Are you Shayla Sheridan?”

“Yes.” I braced myself for the inevitable question: ‘You’re Hank de Winter’s daughter, right.’ Instead, she said, “You work at Haversmith, Peebles, and Chin, right?”

“Yes! I do.”

“That’s so cool. I truly admire Lizbeth Black. She’s my dream editor.”

“She’s my boss. Are you a novelist?”

“I hope to be,” she said, blushing. “I’m the features editor at The Frisky. You know? The online sex and dating magazine?”

“I know it.”

“Sorry. I’m just so used to having to explain myself. Guys and old people never know what I’m talking about. It must be fun working in a publishing house.”

“It can be.” My stomach growled. I never ate dinner last night. My stomach had been sour after skipping out on Jordan. I eyeballed my bagel, wishing I could take a big bite. “There’s a lot of drudgery.”

“Really? It seems so glamorous.”

“Not at all,” I told her. “For instance, one of my jobs is to go through the slush pile. You know, the unsolicited manuscripts that ‘come in over the transom,’ as we say.”

“I know what a slush pile is.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m just so used to having to explain myself.” We both laughed. She was all right, I decreed. I took a huge bite out of my bagel, dropping capers and pieces of onion onto the plate I held beneath my chin. I was so hungry, I talked while I chewed, but I didn’t think she’d mind. She seemed pretty into me.

“So, the best part of the job is discovering a diamond in the rough, you know? I’ll sift through 30 manuscripts, one worse than the next, and then I’ll hit on something that sings.”

“That must be an amazing feeling,” she said, eyes shining.

“You know, it is,” I went on, encouraged. “The idea I can make or break a career!” I knew I was puffing things up, but she seemed genuinely interested in my work, so I didn’t think taking a little license was so bad. I bit off another huge hunk of bagel. The oily piece of fish slid off the top in a sheet and slapped me in the chin. “Excuse me,” I said, mouth full, swiping at my chin with a napkin.

“It’s fine, eat.”

“Anyway,” I said, putting down my plate and picking up my disappointing non-alcoholic drink, “I don’t like to brag, but you know that novel about the girl from the Pakistani fishing village who builds a reed boat and finds asylum on a PETA schooner?” I paused for effect. “Me.”

“No way!”

“Way. I found it in the trash on Lizbeth’s desktop. I fished it out, and the rest is history.” I smiled what I hoped was a humble smile. “I’m going into the kitchen to get a cocktail. Wanna come?” She nodded, following.

“But there are two sides to the coin, you know.” I pushed through the door to the empty kitchen. The tray of pre-made drinks was empty, so I mixed one. “Bloody Mary?” I asked. She shook her head no.

“Alcohol,” she stage-whispered. I threw in an extra splash of vodka.

“So, like I was saying, I have to read through mountains of crap to find the needle in the haystack. I was merrily plowing through manuscripts the other day and I come across a ‘romantic suspense’ book. Wrong editor! Rookie mistake from a newbie author. So the story is this: There’s this girl alone in a cabin in the woods and for whatever reason she’s wearing an evening gown and heels. With little or no fanfare, Bigfoot breaks through the door and…they have sex!”

My new friend wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“Right?” I said, tasting my drink. “I didn’t sign up for that.” I stirred in more horseradish. “I thought I was going to have to wash out my eyes with bleach.”

“But doesn’t Lizbeth handle only literary fiction?” she asked.

“Exactly! That was my point.” I said. It felt good to connect with a kindred spirit. “Do your research, people. Worse yet, there’s the awful, terrible, abysmal writer who should never put a word on the page but thinks his work is full of gravitas and import, like he’s the next John Steinbeck or Margaret Atwood.

“Ugh, those people,” she agreed.

“I cracked one open last week that was so pretentious, with such bad grammar, I excerpted it and sent it around the office. I’m pretty sure it wound up being posted on Miss Snarky’s blog.” I smiled and raised my eyebrows. “You know, the one run by the anonymous editor?”

“Sure, I know it. What was wrong with the book?” She whispered, smiling back.

“To start, the protagonist’s name was…hang on, heh heh, heh. Oh!” I dabbed at my eyes. “The protagonist’s name was Keanu!”

Her smile faded. I was losing her.

“Because who on the planet has ever been named Keanu other than Keanu Reeves?” I tried.

“Was his girlfriend named Suri?” she demanded.

Oh. My. God. “How did you know? Um, wait, what did you say your name was?”

She turned on her heel and pushed through the swinging door. Now I knew her name. I’d last seen it right below the line “Frenemies: A Love Story” on the title page of the worst novel I’d ever read. Hanging my head, I took a deep breath and pushed the door open a crack. I spied her with her coat on, kissing my father’s cheek at the front entrance. And then she was gone.

I could see Brenda in the corner, watching the whole goodbye transaction with an eagle eye. The minute my father was standing alone, Brenda was at his elbow. Oh. My God. She was hitting on him! She wasn’t a bad-looking woman. I suppose they’re roughly the same age, but Hank hadn’t dated a woman roughly the same age as himself since Mom.

My phone rang in my pocket, startling me. Feeling guilty, I shut the door and fetched my drink. “Hello?”

“Shay, do you want to come over to Eric’s parents and watch the game?”

“The game? Since when do I watch games? No!”

“Please? I have to be here and it’s so boring. But there’s sushi, and weirdly, hot sake.”

“I’m at Hank’s brunch, remember? And guess what. Brenda’s flirting with my dad. I didn’t know they even knew each other.”

“You are kidding me. That’s great!”

“Euw. Why is that great?”

“Use it! Put the phone down right now, walk up to her and demand to be seen tomorrow! I mean it. I’m only 12 blocks from Hank’s. If you don’t call me in 15 minutes and tell me you did it, I’m coming over there.”

“You just want an excuse to get out of there.”

“Shayla!”

“OK, I’ll call you later.”

“Fifteen minutes. I mean it.”

I refilled my drink for Dutch courage, choosing to ignore that I was drinking a lot these days, and strode into the living room. Brenda was holding on to Hank’s arm, pushing her hair behind her ear girlishly. I concentrated on not making a face.

“There she is!” Hank bellowed. “Oh ho ho, you have done it this time, my girl.”

“Done what?”

“That little number who writes for The Nooky or the The Spanky, or whatever-the-hell, is not a fan. Ho ho, not at all a fan.”

“Yeah, I know.” I said trying to end the conversation quickly. I didn’t want to bring up the concept of rejecting books in front of Brenda, lest she get any ideas.

“You screwed the pooch! Do your homework, kiddo. She’s going to work for the New York Times Review of Books starting next week. You know what they say, don’t shit where you eat.”

My stomach plummeted. “I don’t think that phrase applies here, Hank.”

“Wait a minute. Shayla, you are his daughter, right?”

“Yes,” I admitted, making space for the elephant that has always been in any room in which Brenda and I dwelled.

“What’s with the ‘Hank’ business?”

“It just…makes more sense that way.” I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to admit that she knew we were related, and I didn’t want to explain that I’d started calling Hank ‘Hank’ from a very early age, long before I wanted to be a writer.

“I’m not really the ‘Daddy’ type,” he chuckled. I nodded and laughed along, but hearing him say it was like a punch in the gut.

In my pocket, my phone rang again. Maggie. I reached in and silenced it. “Hey Brenda,” I forced myself to say, “Can you fit me in around lunchtime tomorrow?”

“I don’t have my planner with me,” she said, airily.

“It’ll be quick. I’ll just swing by for a few minutes.”

“Mondays are tight for me,” she said, glancing at Hank’s face. I pressed on, knowing she was uncomfortable. It was to my advantage, but I’d never been the barracuda type. As much as I didn’t like being pushy, career networking was better than discussing Hank’s fathering skills.

“So I’ll stop in around 1?”

“Hank and I just made a plan for a working lunch on Monday.”

“So you’ll do Tuesday,” I bossed. Extreme discomfort was making me reckless. I wanted to get in and get out. “Hank’s pretty flexible. Right, Hank? Good. I’ll see you Monday at 1, Brenda. You’re welcome for the lox, Hank.” I walked past the buffet table and dropped my half-empty glass. I’d hung my coat and bag on the rack by the door, the one at a child’s eye-level that no one but me ever used. I swooped them up, exited, and shut the door behind me. If I headed home now, I could still spend the better part of Sunday in my pajamas, reading the Times.

Button on the elevator pushed, I pulled out my phone and dialed Maggie. “Mission accomplished,” I said. The doors opened, and there stood Jordan Silver. Ignoring him, I left the party just as he was arriving.

Chapter Four

I was at the HPC office and seated at my desk by 7:30 on Monday morning. On super-early mornings, I liked to buy myself a rare treat: breakfast to go from Sarah’s Bread around the corner from my apartment. If I had to be out of bed at six, headed in for a day of abuse at the hands of Lizbeth Black, the editor wears Prada, walking into the warm shop redolent with the smell of dark coffee and baking loaves was a balm for my tortured soul. They offer a special morning menu with lovely combinations. The Manhattan Breakfast consists of yeast bread twists, cream cheese, jam, and an American coffee. The Parisian Breakfast comes with two slices of baguette, butter, jam and a café au lait. This morning, I was having the Dublin Breakfast, featuring two wholemeal and raisin Irish Soda bread rolls, butter, jam and an Irish breakfast tea. It cost an arm and a leg, like anything decent in New York. I’d had coffee at home, tea would suit me better. I didn’t want to be a shaky wreck when I saw Brenda.

Nate, the cute guy from publicity who always wore belted cardigans (which I found irresistible) got off the elevator. I tried to swallow the bite of bread I was eating before he walked by. I’d made up my mind that the next chance I had, I was going to ask him to go down to the Truffaut retrospective at the Film Forum. He was walking fast.

“Hey, Nate,” I enunciated, spraying crumbs all over my desk blotter.

“Hey, Pal,” he said, flashing me a smile and punching me in the upper arm. I watched him head toward his office. Along the way, he fell into step with Padma, from the legal team. From the way he put his hand on the small of her back, I guessed he didn’t call her ‘Pal.’

If I was going to sneak out to Brenda’s at lunch, I had to cross my T’s and dot my I’s. By 8:15, I had checked off half the items on my to-do list and was blasting through a stack of Lizbeth’s snail mail that required answering. Between tasks, I was contentedly buttering bites of soda bread and taking sips of my strong, milky tea.

“Dear Lord, you eat like a farm hand,” Matty Dentino said, sneering and perching on the side of my desk. Matty, all five foot three of him, had started here a week before I did. He worked for a less prestigious editor, and it was no secret that he thought he was better suited to work for Lizbeth than I was. “Ever hear of Greek yogurt?” He smoothed down the front of his crisp, checked shirt, and re-centered his skinny knit tie. “If you eat all that, you won’t be able to fit into the suit.”

He wanted me to ask him what suit he meant, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Go away, I’m working.”

He snorted. “Barely. Well, you’d better get it all done by 1:30. We’re due at the Javits Center at 2 for set-up, so they’re sending a van.”

The Publishing Expo. I pounded on the keyboard to call up my iCal, hoping against hope Matty had gotten the dates wrong. Of course he hadn’t. Shit. Maggie said she’d cover my desk today, but she couldn’t help me with this. My hands trembled. I closed my eyes and tried to form a plan. OK, Brenda’s office was nine blocks away. If I left here at 12:30, I could maybe be there by quarter to one, or one at the latest. Maybe she’d see me early. If I talked fast and stuck to my agenda, I could be back on the sidewalk by 1:30 if not sooner. I could feel myself calming down.

“You should cut out the coffee,” Matty said, pulling a white handkerchief out to clean his glasses.

I grabbed a tote bag that advertised one of the books we’d published, Microwave Meals for Fast Family Suppers, and stuffed in all of the supplies I’d need for the Book Expo. “You should look into tissues, Brooklynite Poser. What man under the age of 75 uses handkerchiefs. Who are you, my grandfather?”

“Who are you, Woody Allen? You are so neurotic. And not in an entertaining way. You really should see someone about going on Paxil or Lexapro. Or at the very least some Xanax. Here, let me give you an Ativan.”

“No! I don’t need medication.” I threw duct tape into my bag for the Javits Center, along with a stapler, some breath mints, and some sticky notes.

“Agree to disagree,” he said, sweeping the last half of my breakfast into the trash can. “At the very least, you need to get laid.”

“What I need is for you to take your Ativan, your non-prescription vanity glasses, and your stupid Confederate soldier beard away from my desk.”

“Fine, but don’t come crying to me the next time you need someone to run down to FedEx or get Lizbeth a table for lunch somewhere that matters.” He half-hopped down off my desk and headed toward his end of the giant room of cubicles.

“Wait!” I hated myself for what I was about to ask. “What suit?”

“Oh, you’ll see,” he said, still walking. “And when you do,” he called over his shoulder, “you’d better not ask me for an Ativan, because the answer’s no.”

Huffing from the run over, I pushed through the glass doors of Global-Lion Literary’s inner office without stopping at reception.

“Hey,” I heard from the girl at the desk, as I took in the view of my agent’s tweed-covered back from across the room. Squaring my shoulders, I strode purposefully toward her, determined to leave with what I came for.

“Brenda!” I shouted. “Thanks for fitting me in. I wanted to ask you about…”

“Tsst!” my agent hissed, pointing her coral-colored talon at my chest. Then she brought it to her lips, shushing me with a scowl.

I recovered from my tunnel vision to notice Ray Diablo sitting in the wing chair next to her desk. He was wearing one of his trademark bowling shirts, this one embroidered with bright-orange flames. I don’t know how I could have missed him.

“Naw, it’s OK Brenda,” Ray said, standing up. “I’m on my way out. You can take your next meeting.” He gave me a smooth smile. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“I’m Shayla Sheridan,” I said. “I’m a big fan of your cookbooks,” I lied, shaking his hand. “I heard you lost your co-writer,” I blurted. I hoped I’d phrased that with diplomacy. Everyone in the Puck Building had heard he “lost” his co-writer the night he fired her in a screaming fit at his book party. “I just co-wrote Smoothie Skinny for Tilly Auslander, and I’ve written several Dumbass Guides…”

“Ray, she’s early,” Brenda cut me off, and shot me a warning look. “Sit.”

“I have a lunch with the people from Channel E.A.T. I’d better head out anyway,” he said, still holding onto my hand. “Do you have a card or something?”

“No, she doesn’t,” Brenda said. “If you need her, I know where to find her.”

“All right then,” he chuckled. He took a card out of the back pocket of his jeans and handed it to me. “Here’s where you can find me. You know, if you need me.” He looked me straight in the eyes, and paused there for a second. “Later, Brenda,” he said, and walked out the glass doors. The phone on the desk rang.

“Brenda Sackler,” she proclaimed. She waved me toward the empty rolling chair at the desk beside hers. No wing chair for me. Obediently, I sat down.

I was pumped with adrenaline from making speeches in my head to plead my case, and my interaction with Ray had only thrown fuel on the fire. I could feel the fight rising up in me. Keep a cool head, I thought to myself. Don’t do anything rash. Act like a grown-up, and this will be your time.

I knew I had a winner of a concept, I just knew it. But we needed to strike while the iron was hot, and I was so sick of waiting for my turn to be noticed. Right now, the phrase “New Adult” was being splashed around the pages of the New York Times like vinegar and oil over ladies’ lunches. Every book aimed at females aged 13 to 30 was being billed as the next New Adult hit. The funny thing was, no one even knew what New Adult was yet. If I got in the door now, I’d be one of the definers.

I’d get booked on public radio shows to expound on what the phrase New Adult meant in publishing, maybe sit on panels with that bookish darling of Tin House Magazine, the Hotchkiss dropout who wrote that thousand-page novel. Maybe I’d wind up hosting a show on MTV called New Adult featuring all the former child stars who now did art films in order to be taken seriously. The time was mine to become a writer whose name people knew. My name, not my father’s.

What I banked on was this: I had a million-dollar idea. A true “high concept.” No one had yet thought to leverage the concept for non-fiction, and I was the perfect candidate to capitalize on the trend, even though I knew deep in my gut that I was neither cutting edge nor particularly adult in my dealings. But I could write. And I could research.

Not to mention I grew up in New York City, Mecca for all proper New Adults. It’s no accident the Manhattan Girls series of novels starring 18- to 22-year-olds takes place here. I went to high school here, I went to Sarah Lawrence, and I interned here. I was tossed head first into the selection-or-cut interview process with my first private preschool on the Upper East Side when I was four. The fact that I didn’t always mesh with my cohort was beside the point. I had a pedigree.

Brenda was silent with the phone smashed to her ear, tapping a pencil against a cup of the blackest, thickest coffee seen this side of hell. I scanned her desk for my proposal.

It was freezing in the climate-controlled skyscraper. Yeah, so it was close to the end of March, but when it’s still spitting snow, people need the heat on. The chair leather froze my legs through my thin tights. Stupid work dress. Temporarily distracted by the cold, I eyeballed the cozy-looking deep-red pashmina draped on the coat rack next to Brenda’s desk. That’s precisely the kind of thing a stylish, professional New York woman keeps on hand. Luxe, upscale, useful. One could drape it around one’s shoulders during a business meeting and still look modern. Or, when called to a sudden business dinner at a fancy restaurant, one could pair it with a matching MAC lipstick, and seamlessly take one’s outfit from day to evening. I wanted that pashmina more than any physical object I’d ever laid eyes on.

Why was I never prepared? You know those girls who have band-aids, a sewing kit, a compact umbrella, and a light cardigan sweater tucked into their chic shoulder bags? I’m not one of them. I’d left the office for this meeting carrying a brown suede Le Sac purse from my last year of high school, containing exactly my phone and my wallet (no hairbrush), and a plastic grocery sack in which I carried an overdue library book and a pair of shoes that needed heel taps. I’d grabbed the sack without thinking and now I was stuck with it.