‘Because, darling, I want to take romantic weekend trips with you. The freedom it offers would be wonderful for us. And besides, ESPN will pay for me to garage it in the city. So, any preferences?’
‘Not really.’
‘Leigh, come on. We’ll be using it a lot together. You really have no opinion?’
‘I don’t know … the blue ones, I guess.’ She knew she was being impossible, but she really, honestly didn’t care. Russell was going to obsess over cars regardless of what she liked or didn’t, so she really didn’t want to get involved.
‘The “blue ones”? You’re being a bitch.’
Relieved that he’d finally pushed back – an all-too-rare event – she’d relented a little. ‘Henry drives a blue Prius and loves it – says it gets amazing gas mileage. Someone said that the hybrid Escape is good, too – an SUV that doesn’t look like a tank.’
‘A hybrid?’
‘I don’t know. It doesn’t have to be. I also like that curvy Nissan … What’s it called? A Mural?’
‘A Murano. Are you serious?’
‘Actually, I already told you I couldn’t care less, but you’ve forced the conversation. Get whatever one you like.’
A long soliloquy ensued wherein Russell extolled the many virtues of the Range Rover. He covered its interior, exterior, horsepower, exclusivity, stylishness, and practicality in bad weather (notably leaving out any mention of gas mileage or the difficulty of getting one serviced, but Leigh refrained from pointing that out). He instinctively fell into his on-air personality and droned on and on: baritone voice animated but controlled, gaze steady, posture perfect. It was precisely what made him so charismatic and engaging on-air that could make him so grating when they were alone. She wondered what all those girls who wrote to his Web site and sent seductive pictures of themselves would think if they got to see this Russell: still gorgeous, admittedly, but also smug and not a little boring.
He had just finished telling her about some basketball player’s commitment to the troops when they pulled into the driveway. Her parents had grudgingly left the city for Greenwich in the 1980s when Leigh’s grandmother passed away, leaving the family home to her only son. Leigh’s father was still a junior editor and her mother had only just finished law school, so the chance to live rent- and mortgage-free – even if it was, regrettably, off-island – was just too good to pass up. Leigh had lived in the beautiful old home since preschool, played tag in its surrounding woods and hosted birthday parties at its pool, and lost her virginity in the cool, cavelike basement to a boy whose name she remembered but whose face had since blurred; and yet the five-bedroom house hadn’t felt like home in many years.
Leigh typed the security code (1-2-3-4, naturally) into the garage-side keypad and motioned for Russell to follow. Part of her was disappointed that her mother hadn’t raced outside to grab Leigh’s hand and stare at her engagement ring and wipe away tears as she kissed her only daughter and future son-in-law, but she was self-aware enough to admit that she would have been irritated and embarrassed had her mother done precisely that. Mrs. Eisner wasn’t exactly the gushing, teary type, and in this way mother and daughter were similar.
‘Mom? Dad? We’re here!’ She led Russell through the front hallway, which had long ago ceased being a mudroom and had been transformed into an elegant foyer, and walked into the kitchen. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘Coming!’ she heard her mother call from the family room. A moment later she appeared before them, looking casually elegant in one of her trillion Polo collared shirts, khaki capris, and Tod’s driving moccasins.
‘Leigh! Russell. Congratulations. Oh, I am so thrilled for you both.’ She embraced her daughter and leaned up to kiss Russell’s cheek. ‘Now, come sit down so I can properly examine this sparkler. I can’t believe I had to wait twelve full days to see this!’
Passive-aggressive comment number one, Leigh thought. We’re off and running.
‘I’m so sorry I didn’t wait for you and Mr. Eisner to return, but I very much wanted to propose on our one-year anniversary,’ Russell rushed to explain.
Her parents had returned late the night before from their annual three-week June pilgrimage to Europe and had insisted that the happy couple join them for a celebratory dinner.
‘Please,’ her mother waved at the air. ‘We understand. Besides, no one really needs their parents for these things now, do they?’
Number two. And in record time.
Russell cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable enough that Leigh felt a momentary pang of sympathy. She decided to rescue him. ‘Mom, how about a glass of wine? Is there some in the fridge?’
Mrs. Eisner pointed to the mahogany bar in the corner of the den. ‘There should be a couple bottles of chardonnay in the wine cooler. Your father likes it, but I find it a tad dry. If you would prefer red, you’ll need to get it from the cellar.’
‘I think we’d probably rather have red,’ Leigh said, mostly for Russell’s benefit. She knew that he hated white wine – Chardonnay most of all – but would never express such a preference in front of her parents.
‘You two visit for a minute,’ Russell said with an award-winning (an Emmy, to be precise, bestowed last year for ‘Outstanding Studio Show – Weekly’) smile. ‘I’ll go get the wine.’
Mrs. Eisner clasped Leigh’s left hand and pulled it directly under the table lamp. ‘My, my, he certainly did his homework, didn’t he? And of course, so did you. Russell will make such a wonderful husband. You must be so pleased.’
Leigh paused for a moment, uncertain of what she meant. It was implied that Leigh had been poised and ready for this moment her entire life, that this ring signified success in a way that valedictorian, Cornell, or becoming a star editor at Brook Harris never could. She loved Russell – really, she did – but it rankled that her own mother considered him Leigh’s greatest achievement to date.
‘It’s all so exciting,’ Leigh offered with an extra-large smile.
Her mother sighed. ‘Well, I should hope so! It’s so nice to see you happy for once. You’ve worked so hard for so long now … Suffice it to say that this didn’t come a moment too soon.’
‘Mother, do you realize that you just—’ But before she could say managed to imply that, one, I’m always negative, and two, my age is so advanced you worried I might never snag a husband, Russell came back with Mr. Eisner in tow.
‘Leigh,’ her father said in a voice so steady and quiet it was almost a whisper. ‘Leigh, Leigh, Leigh.’ His hair was now completely gray, although, as with many men, it made him look not so much older as more distinguished. Same with the deep lines etched in his forehead and around his mouth and eyes – they conveyed a feeling of wisdom and experience, not the air of a problem that should be dealt with at the plastic surgeon’s next available appointment. Even his sweater – a three-decades-old navy cardigan with leather elbow patches and toggle buttons – seemed somehow more intelligent than the sweaters most men wore these days.
He stood in the doorway next to the piano and gazed at her in a way that always made her feel scrutinized, like he was deciding whether or not he liked her new haircut or approved of her outfit. Growing up, it was her mother who made the most immediate rules regarding their daughter – whether eyeliner was permitted, what was appropriate attire for a school dance, how late she could stay out on a school night – but it was only her father who could make her feel brilliant or idiotic, gorgeous or hideously ugly, charmed or wretched, with the most casual look or comment. Of course, while such comments could appear casual, they never were. Every word he uttered was considered, weighed, and chosen with deliberateness, and woe to the person who failed to select her words with such precision. Although Leigh couldn’t recall a single occasion when her father had raised his voice, she remembered the countless times he had dissected her arguments or opinions with a quiet ruthlessness that intimidated her to this day.
‘He’s an editor,’ her mother would soothe when Leigh go
t upset as a child. ‘Words are his life. He’s careful with them. He loves them, loves the language. Don’t take it personally, darling.’ And Leigh would nod and say she understood and make a greater effort at watching what she said, while trying not to take any of it personally.
‘Hi, Dad,’ she said almost shyly. She had seen both Emmy and Adriana call their fathers ‘Daddy,’ but it seemed impossible to imagine calling her own father something so saccharine. Even though he’d retired six years earlier, Charles Eisner would be an imposing editor-in-chief until the day he died. He’d ruled with a firm hand during the twelve years as head of Paramour Publishing – none of the ‘handholding warm fuzzy shit,’ in his words, of today’s big publishing houses – and he’d remained consistently aloof and detached at home, as much as he could manage. Fall lineups, production schedules, assistant editors, pressures from corporate, even authors themselves were perfectly predictable after the first few years, which is why Leigh always thought it drove him particularly crazy that children were not. To this day Leigh tried to remain as steady and evenhanded around her father as possible, taking particular care not to blurt out whatever she was thinking.
‘I’ve already congratulated my future son-in-law,’ he said, moving across the room toward Leigh. ‘Come here, dear. Allow me this pleasure.’
After a brief embrace and a kiss on the forehead, neither particularly warm nor affectionate, Mr. Eisner ushered everyone into the dining room and began issuing quiet directives.
‘Russell, would you please decant the wine? Use the stemless glasses from the bar, if you will. Carol, the salad needs to be tossed with the vinaigrette. Everything else is finished, but I didn’t want that to get soggy while we waited. Leigh, dear, you may just be seated and relax. After all, tonight is your special night.’
She told herself it was paranoid and neurotic to interpret this as anything other than a compliment, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that it felt like a small attack. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll be the official relaxer.’
They discussed her parents’ trip over the arugula and goat cheese salad and told about their own engagement during the filet with asparagus and rosemary potatoes. Russell entertained the table with anecdotes of ring-shopping and planning the proposal, and Leigh’s parents smiled and laughed far more than was usual for either of them, and everything was quite civilized, almost even enjoyable, until Leigh’s cell phone rang in the middle of dessert.
She pulled her bag up from under the table and removed her phone.
‘Leigh!’ her mother chided. ‘We’re eating.’
‘Yes, Mother, I know, but it’s Henry. Excuse me for a minute.’ She took her phone and headed toward the living room but, realizing that everyone would be able to hear her, she ducked out back to the deck and heard her father say, ‘No publisher I ever worked with would call one of his editors at nine o’clock on a Friday night unless something was very, very wrong,’ right before she pulled the door closed behind her.
‘Hello?’ she answered, convinced her father was right and that Henry was calling to fire her. It had been ten days since the whole Jesse Chapman debacle, and although Leigh had apologized numerous times, Henry still seemed distant and distracted.
‘Leigh? Henry. Sorry for the late call, but it couldn’t wait until tomorrow.’
Here it comes, she thought, bracing for the news. It was bad enough to get fired from the publishing house where you were on track to be the youngest senior editor in history, but having to walk inside and tell her father was going to make it unbearable.
‘It’s no problem. I’m at my parents’ and we just finished dinner, so it’s a perfect time. Is everything okay?’
Henry sighed. Shit. This could be worse than she thought. ‘You’re with Charles? That’s just perfect. He’s going to love this.’
Leigh took a deep breath and forced herself to speak. ‘Yes?’ It sounded more like a squeak than a word.
‘Are you sitting down? You’re not going to believe this. God knows I barely do.’
‘Henry,’ she said quietly. ‘Please.’
‘I just hung up with Jesse Chapman …’
Oh, thank god, Leigh thought, her hands finally unclenching. He’s just calling to tell me that Jesse has chosen a publisher. She knew she should probably care whether or not he chose Brook Harris, but her relief was too all-encompassing.
‘… and he has decided that he would like us to publish his next novel.’
‘Henry, that’s wonderful! I couldn’t be more thrilled. And of course you know I’ll personally apologize to him again when—’
He interrupted. ‘I’m not finished, Leigh. He wants us to publish him, but he has a condition: He wants you to edit him.’
Leigh was just about to say ‘you’re kidding’ when Henry spoke again.
‘And this is not a joke.’
Leigh tried to swallow but her mouth felt like cotton. The combination of excitement, relief, and terror was too much to endure. ‘Henry, please.’
‘Please what? Are you listening? Did you hear me? Number one New York Times bestselling author, winner of the Pultizer, seller of five million copies worldwide, and, up until this very moment, a complete and total vanishing act, has requested – no, excuse me, demanded – that you, Leigh Eisner, edit him.’
‘No.’
‘Leigh, pull it together. I don’t know how else to say this. He wants you and only you. He said that once he really made it, no one would be straight with him anymore. Everyone just coddled and indulged him and told him he was brilliant, but no one – not his editor or publisher or agent – would ever give it to him straight. And apparently he loved that you weren’t afraid to be honest with him. I think his exact words were ‘That girl has zero bullshit tolerance and so do I. I want to work with her.’’
‘‘‘Zero bullshit tolerance”? Henry, my entire job description is based on telling authors only what they want to hear. Hell, my whole life is. Sometimes I slip up, but –’
‘Slip up?’
‘Okay, so that’s a slight understatement. So I’ve been known to talk without thinking, occasionally. But I don’t think I’m capable of honesty on demand. It just sort of comes out when I’m least expecting it.’
‘Well, I certainly know that, but our friend Jesse does not. Nor will he.’ He paused. ‘Leigh, I have to say I was every bit as shocked as you are, probably more, but I want you to listen very carefully. You have what it takes. I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I weren’t absolutely certain that you could handle it. And not just handle it – make it work. You certainly don’t need me to tell you how significant this will be to your career. Take some time this weekend, think this over, and come to my office when you get in Monday, okay? I’m behind you on this one, Leigh. It’s going to be great.’
Her family was discussing the wisdom of an engagement party when she returned to the table and quietly announced that she would be editing Jesse Chapman’s new book.
‘Oh, he has a new book coming out?’ her mother asked while pouring herself more coffee. ‘How lovely. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?’
Russell was slightly more clued in, but not much. He was supportive, of course, and always seemed proud to tell his friends and colleagues about her job, and he knew that Leigh had most likely offended Jesse Chapman that day in Henry’s office, but authors like Jesse Chapman weren’t at the top of his personal reading list.
It didn’t really matter, though. The only person who understood the significance of the situation had heard her loud and clear: Her father looked as though someone had used his gut as a punching bag. ‘Jesse Chapman? The Jesse Chapman?’
Leigh just nodded, unable to trust herself to keep from gloating if she opened her mouth.
He recovered quickly and held aloft his wineglass for a toast, but Leigh could see the doubt and disbelief in his eyes. She knew he was thinking that there must be some mistake, that his daughter, so inexperienced when compared to his own illustrious career, would be edit
ing an author bigger than any he had ever worked with. Leigh almost felt sympathetic – almost – when she saw that for the very first time in her life, her father the wordsmith, the great guru, the judge and jury extraordinaire, was speechless.
once they’re in, they’re real
While the rest of America spent the long holiday weekend watching fireworks and attending poolside barbecues, Emmy slumped with her friends on the pavement at the Curaçao airport and tried to figure out when their vacation had gone so terribly awry. She didn’t even feel the sunglasses being stolen off her head. The thieves – two long-haired, pimply teenagers in a crumbling pickup truck – stopped a few hundred yards away, hung out the windows, and waved them at her while shouting gleefully in a language she didn’t recognize. Still unsure, Emmy touched her head to confirm they were gone.
‘Why are those kids screaming at us?’ Adriana asked, looking puzzled. ‘Are they trying to sell us those sunglasses?’
Answering felt like an overwhelming task. Emmy’s tongue was thick, unresponsive. It seemed like it should be quite simple to explain that those were her sunglasses, but no amount of effort on her part produced any actual sound.
Apparently Leigh didn’t get it, either. ‘Tell them you don’t need any sunglasses, that you just bought a pair,’ she slurred.
‘But I do need a pair,’ Emmy croaked. She waved listlessly in the general direction of the boys, who had just thrown the truck into drive and were moving toward the airport exit. ‘Help us.’ She sounded like Rose from the movie Titanic, frozen and nearly unconscious on her raft, adrift in the Atlantic, although thankfully they were neither freezing nor afloat.
‘Come on, girls, we need to get ourselves together. This is a vacation – a celebration – not a funeral,’ Adriana said, barely enunciating a single word.
The ‘vacation’ was significantly less festive than the last wake Emmy had attended – not to mention that the food wasn’t as good. But she said nothing. After all, they were there to celebrate Leigh’s engagement, and she’d be damned if she was going to ruin it. So what if the whole thing had become a giant nightmare before it even really got started? Your best friend gets engaged only one time (hopefully … and if that friend was Leigh, then definitely), and she was going to show Leigh a good time if it killed her. Which it just might.
Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection Page 92