What Nora Knew

by Yellin, Linda

“Me, either,” Cameron said. “I’ll be sitting in the very front row like I’m part of the show.” He turned to me. “Sylvester Stallone’s making my movie.” Another humble shrug. Another sheepish smile.

  “Really?” I said.

  “Really?” Russell piped in.

  “Who’s playing Sasha?” Rachel asked.

  “That’s up to Sylvester,” Heike said. “We’re hoping for Angelina.”

  Pamela paused mid-fig bite. “Oh, they’ll be a terrific couple. Slygelina!”

  “I picture Gwyneth Paltrow,” Blair said. “Slytrow!”

  “Gwyneth’s too young,” Rachel said. She was checking her lipstick in the blade of her knife. “I hate these eight-hour lipsticks. They last eight minutes.”

  “I wonder if they gave couples combo-names back in history,” I said. “Romeo and Juliet: Julio. CathCliff or Heatherine?”

  “You read romantic literature?” Cameron asked me.

  “I’m just making a point.” Nobody seemed too interested in exploring my theory further.

  “Mike Bing’s girlfriends aren’t bimbos,” Lindy Sue said. Why was she looking at me? “They’re always age-appropriate.”

  “Did anyone watch that terrible Diane Keaton–Justin Bieber DVD?” Russell asked.

  A general mumbling of Never saw it, never saw it followed, interrupted by Heike’s barking, “It’s not my fault Justin Bieber can’t act!” while punching her thumbs into her BlackBerry.

  I wondered if it was too late to change my seat to the Bruce side of the table.

  “How old is Mike Bing?” I asked Cameron.

  “Forty-two,” he said.

  “How old are you?”

  “Forty-two.”

  “Sounds like this Mike fellow and you might get along. Do you like age-appropriate women?”

  “I like all women.”

  “Really? How time-consuming.”

  The plates were cleared and desserts served—lemon curd cheesecake, chocolate bundts with créme anglaise, poached pears with apricot sauce, fresh watermelon slices—and the conversations broke down into smaller configurations. Pamela was talking to Marya and BlackBerry-tapping Heike. Rachel was talking with Lindy Sue. Russell was handing Blair his business card. Farther down the table Thatcher and Darrin were arm wrestling next to a plate of pastel-colored macaroons. Somehow it was just Cameron and I chatting while I ate watermelon. I love watermelon. I consider seedless watermelon the single most marvelous invention in the history of man. Right after Post-its.

  “So, Cameron Duncan, if your Mike Bing’s good at love, he must be good at recognizing it.” I was using a knife and fork; at home I would have just picked up my watermelon rind and gnawed it. “If you were speaking on his behalf, how does Mike know when someone’s the one?”

  “A Magic 8 Ball comes in handy.”

  “Was that a serious answer?”

  “Was that a serious question?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “You should try salting that to bring out the taste,” Cameron said. “Watermelon’s really good that way.”

  “There’s taste here. I can taste it.” I continued eating sans salt.

  “I guess it’s a Midwest thing.” Cameron sat there watching me chew. I felt more comfortable when I was posing naked.

  I said, “This detective of yours must be pretty desirable if he can find a new girlfriend every book.”

  “He believes in love. He holds out for love. He’s a romantic.”

  “And he’s fictional.”

  “But not unrealistic.”

  I bit into a renegade seed in my seedless watermelon, doing my best to remove the little rascal while daintily covering my mouth. I didn’t think Pammie would appreciate my spitting it out onto her lawn. I asked, “So, do these Mike Bing girlfriends have anything in common? Other than they all end up dead.”

  “Yes. They all salt their watermelon.”

  “Too bad. I guess I’m not his type.”

  “He might not agree with that.”

  I was about to say something on the order of Ha! or roll my eyes and tell Cameron I hoped his prose was as smooth as he was, when he said, “You’ve got watermelon dripping.” He pointed toward my napkin. “May I?” I looked over at Russell. He was talking with Lindy Sue and eating a blini.

  “I can manage.” I wiped my face.

  “You missed a spot.”

  “Did not.”

  “Trust me.” Cameron leaned closer, took the napkin from me, and dabbed my chin lightly, almost tenderly, and only for a moment, but the weird thing is, after he moved his hand away I could still feel the pressure of his fingers against my skin. Warm. And confusing.

  He smiled at me, as if the two of us had shared a secret while surrounded by Pammie’s guests.

  What the hell was that little back-and-forth? my inner Molly wondered as Pammie was cupping her hands around her mouth shouting to get everyone’s attention. “Who wants to play touch football!”

  A rumble of interest rose up, probably enhanced by all the bottles of wine that had been consumed, except from Heike, who said, “You’re kidding, right? That’s a joke?”

  Russell was the surprising one. He abandoned his blini and said, “I love touch football! C’mon, everyone, it’ll be fun!”

  I had no idea he was such a fan. Then again, anyone who threw out their back could mean potential business.

  Pammie called down the table, “Bruce, sweetheart, do you want to be one captain and I’ll be the other?” and lunch was officially over. As everyone—even a reluctant Heike—pushed back their chairs and discussed choosing teams or whether they preferred volunteering for cheerleading duties, I mouthed the words no thanks to Russell.

  “Don’t you leave without me getting your autograph!” Blair said to Cameron as she raced off.

  “Or me,” Rachel said, turning to call out, “I want Bruce’s side!”

  “Have fun,” I said to Cameron.

  He remained seated. I remained seated. After a minute or two of our sitting in silence, I said, “Mike Bing’s not an athlete?”

  Cameron shook his head no.

  I asked him to pass some more watermelon.

  He picked a wedge off a platter and deposited it on my plate. All around us servers were removing plates and glasses and folding up chairs.

  “Do you really like Nicolas Cage?” I asked.

  Cameron smiled. At least he had the decency to look embarrassed.

  “Why’d you claim you did?”

  “I made a book sale.”

  “So you’ll say anything?”

  Cameron didn’t say anything.

  “I bet you don’t love Sleepless in Seattle either.” I glanced around at the empty table. “Your audience is gone now. You can fess up.”

  “It’s a perfect movie,” he said. “The last scene on the Empire State Building is one of the most romantic scenes ever. In the perfect setting.”

  I concentrated on my watermelon. Told Cameron, “I think you say what you think women want to hear, not what you really believe.”

  “That’s your big assessment?” he said. “When’d you get so cynical?”

  “Five years ago when I divorced a divorce lawyer.” What was I going to say? That after my divorce I ended up madder at myself than at Evan because I no longer trusted my judgment? That the day I read his wedding announcement in the New York Times was about as bad a day as a day can feel.

  “Five years is a long time to be a skeptic. Life’s too short,” Cameron said.

  “Yeah. Especially for anyone who dates your detective.” I crisscrossed my knife and fork on my plate. “Excuse me, but my boyfriend is waiting.” I scanned the lawn looking for Russell. He was busy getting tackled.

  Oliver West was walking up to Cameron and me. He stopped, snapped his fingers, and pointed at my chest. “I do remember you! Gorgeous!”

  * * *

  On the drive back to the city that night, sitting and not going anywhere in our Zipcar, bumper to bumper, hon
king horn to honking horn, Russell and I taking turns adjusting the air-conditioning level, then readjusting it, and changing the radio station from his favorite to my favorite, I said, “Can you believe that Cameron Duncan’s arrogance?”

  Russell drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I didn’t notice.”

  I made my voice sound deep and mocking. “Sylvester Stallone is making my movie.”

  “That’s not arrogance,” Russell said. “Ben Affleck is making my movie is arrogance. Not Sylvester Stallone.”

  “Well, it sounded like bragging to me.”

  “He seemed like a decent guy.”

  “I talked to him more than you did. He’s a phony. And I know one when I see one.”

  4

  Russell kissed me good-bye and drove off in his Zipcar. Five minutes later I was exiting the elevator on my apartment floor. Lacey and Kevin Gallo, my newlywed neighbors, were pressed against each other outside the trash-chute room, making out next to a Hefty bag. What was it about tossing garbage that they found such a turn-on?

  The Gallos look alike, all arms, legs, lips, and tongues. Same mussed hair and pale complexions—probably from never leaving their bedroom. They’ve lived next door to me for seven months now, and I have no idea what they do or where they came from; they never talk, maybe not even to each other, they just rub up against one another and play tonsil hockey.

  “Have a nice holiday?” I asked as I passed them.

  Inside my own four walls, I was unzipping my suitcase when somebody buzzed. I opened the front door without peeping through the peephole.

  Angela held up a half-eaten Twinkie. “Want a bite?” she asked.

  I shook my head no.

  “How was the Hamptons?”

  “How was the Shore?”

  She was wearing yoga pants and a T-shirt, her hair pulled into a ponytail; she looked cute. She followed me into my bedroom, and while I unpacked, she sat on my Hallberg-upholstered reading chair, blue-and-white-striped, with perfectly matched seams. “Were there any good people there?” she asked.

  “Good how?”

  “Famous.”

  You have to watch what you say around Angela. You can’t have a conversation without her tweeting. Say anything she considers halfway clever and she’ll whip out her phone. Her biggest client is a gourmet grocery store, Iannuzzeli’s. She tweets about sales and produce tips under the fake name of a fake customer. Like us on Facebook and learn how to sniff a cantaloupe! It makes her nuts that the store name takes up half her letters. The fake customer’s name is Flo because it only has three letters. Angela also tweets as Angela.

  I pulled out my nightgown, my sunblock, my diaphragm. “Not much in celebrity sighting,” I said. “One semifamous producer and one author, only I didn’t know the author was famous so he didn’t count. Cameron Duncan.”

  “You met him?”

  “Sat next to him. Major kiss-ass phony.”

  “I’d let him kiss my ass.”

  “You read his books?”

  “I loaned my copies to my mom and can’t get her to give them back. People say he’s the Dashiell Hammett of this generation.”

  “Isn’t James Patterson the Dashiell Hammett of this generation?”

  Angela paused, smiled, pulled out her phone, and tweeted.

  “He salts watermelon,” I said.

  “Oh, that’s interesting. May I quote you on that?”

  “Don’t you mean may I steal that?”

  “Until you have your own account, all your comments are public domain.”

  “I will never have a Twitter account. It’s one more time-suck. A bunch of people talking like fortune cookies.”

  “Well, I think Cameron Duncan’s adorable. I follow his tweets.”

  “He tweets?”

  “Everyone tweets.” She happily tapped away until her face turned into one of those uh-oh expressions. I was in the middle of deciding whether my shorts needed laundering.

  “What?” I asked.

  Angela held out her phone. I dropped the shorts in the laundry pile and walked around the bed to read, Cynics are made, not born. Who’s still in a bad mood 5 years after a divorce? I read it twice.

  “That’d be you, right?” Angela said.

  “Who’s going to see this?” I read the tweet a third time.

  “His ten thousand followers. Mostly women.”

  “Really? Write something bad about him! Say no woman should fall for his bullshit.”

  “Start an account and write your own insulting tweets.”

  I weighed my annoyance versus the possibility of my being someone who tweeted. “Oh, forget it,” I said. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “Did you get any good quotes in the Hamptons?” Angela asked.

  “Nothing juicy.”

  “You should’ve interviewed Cameron. He’s an expert on romance!”

  After Angela left I looked up Cameron Duncan online; the press seemed to interview him every time he brushed his teeth. They sure liked reporting his social life. He was arm candy for one woman after another. How’d the guy have any time to write? I read his Wikipedia profile. Born in Hamilton, Ohio. Graduated Ohio State. Former columnist for Ellery Queen magazine. Three bestsellers in the last three years. Nominee for the Edgar Award. No mentions of marriages, but Wikipedia wasn’t reliable. He could have a dozen ex-wives. All dead. And nowhere did it mention his rude tweets.

  INTERVIEW NOTES. CENTRAL PARK. TUESDAY, MAY 31

  Sheep Meadow

  ME: How do you know someone’s perfect for you?

  GUY IN RED SHIRT: You never want to say good-bye.

  WOMAN IN MATCHING RED SHIRT: Ever.

  ME: Tell me more.

  WOMAN: We can’t. We have to go.

  GUY: Good-bye.

  Bethesda Fountain

  ME: Have you ever thought a woman was the one for you and then realized you were wrong?

  DUDE HOLDING A HOT DOG: Sure. About a million times.

  ME: Why is it so difficult to recognize true love?

  DUDE: Love? Oh—I thought we were talking about sex.

  Boathouse

  ME: Can you remember the first time you looked into each other’s eyes?

  YOUNG WOMAN: About twenty minutes ago. We’re on a JDate.

  ME: Oh. Sorry. How’s it going?

  BALD MAN: Great! She’s prettier than her picture.

  YOUNG WOMAN: (frowning) He’s older than his picture.

  ME: Best of luck to both of you.

  Great Lawn

  ME: Hi, there. I was wondering if I can interview you about love.

  GUY IN SWEAT-STAINED T-SHIRT: I’m in the middle of a Frisbee game.

  ME: I see, but—

  GUY: Duck!

  * * *

  Wednesday night I filled in for Joel Mooy, EyeSpy’s restaurant critic. My assignment: check out a new, upscale Lower East Side delicatessen. I immediately called Kristine, who insists I immediately call her whenever I’m on expense account.

  Kristine Marshall’s one of my best friends, only I’m not allowed to say that. She says best friend is a label only seventh graders use. I love her but she’s always coming up with these rules and edicts nobody else ever heard of. Kristine’s forty-two, three years older than me, and recently divorced from her husband, Zach, following an eight-month trial separation during which Zach dated while Kristine waited for him to come to his senses. Zach is now engaged to a kindergarten teacher.

  Kristine has since declared her brain a no-Zach zone. She’s determined not to be one of those women who divorce a guy but maintain a relationship in their head, rehashing and rearguing, using up their psychic energy. And, yes, I’m her role model for a bad example. She’s turned herself into the queen of moving forward, online dating with a vengeance, working her way through all of cyberspace as a determined optimist. Except she’s way picky. She stopped seeing one guy when he showed up wearing a fanny pack; rejected another because he called Myanmar, Burma.

  Kristine and
I first met the Christmas I worked in Bloomingdale’s appliance department. She was using her discount to buy a juicer for Zach’s mother. Kristine works in Bloomingdale’s furniture department. She calls herself an interior decorator; Bloomingdale’s calls her a sales associate. Whenever she comes to my apartment, she starts rearranging my chairs and pushing around my sofa. But I don’t mind. She has excellent taste.

  Kristine’s wide-eyed and thin-lipped, with eyeglasses that are always smudged. Honest to God, she must dredge them through a mud puddle every morning. She wears heels to make herself not just tall, but intimidating, and can outeat a military division without gaining an ounce. Her superhigh metabolism makes her the perfect companion for the occasional restaurant assignments I get when Joel’s sick at home with food poisoning.

  “What’s with this place?” Kristine asked, surveying the restaurant’s glossy walls, frosted-glass panels, and linen fixtures, its long, curved bar substituting for a deli counter. We were seated side by side on a leather banquette, ivory with gold piping. “I feel like we’re eating in a spa.”

  Our waitress was wearing what looked like an aproned uniform and ruffled, white cap if Armani had designed an aproned uniform and ruffled, white cap. I ordered six appetizers and four entrées. Only a moron wouldn’t suspect I was reviewing the place.

  “Nothing else?” the waitress asked. She kept warning us the portions were big. “Any allergies?”

  “Penicillin,” I said.

  “Fine,” she said, walking off. “Stay away from the chicken soup.”

  While Kristine and I waited for our food, we made conversation like we were normal patrons, instead of undercover patrons. “How are your write-’em-like-Nora interviews?” she asked.

  I said, “Thanks for ruining my appetite.”

  “That badly?”

  “That slowly. How about I interview you right now?”

  “Isn’t it cheating to interview your friends?”

  “I prefer to think of it as efficient.”

  “Okay. Shoot.”

  I used my best fake radio-announcer voice. “So, Ms. Marshall, how will you recognize your perfect man?”

  “Besides his devastating good looks, animal prowess, and trust fund?”

  “Yes. Besides that.”

  “He has to be willing to die for me. And then prove it.”