Summer at Castle Stone

by Lynn Marie Hulsman

  “I’m doing the assistant ‘thang’ now.” I watched in horror as my hands made air quotes. “But not for long, you know.” I took a big slug out of my drink. The whiskey burned the back of my throat but my mouth was full. I coughed through my nose, sending tiny droplets of blood onto his pant leg. Struggling to stifle my sputtering, I barked out “I…am…so sorry.”

  “Not a problem.” He picked out some of the cleaner napkins from the table, and dabbed at his knee. Embarrassed, I swept the rest of the bloodied pile into my bag.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “You apologize a lot.”

  That shut my mouth. He was right. I didn’t feel sorry about anything. But I had gotten sucked in by his image, and I was playing a game falling all over myself trying to impress him. Sure, he was some kind of publishing wunderkind. Sure, he had a real tan, earned on an adventure trip to someplace like Costa Rica or maybe Australia. But like Maggie pointed out, I wasn’t so bad myself. Relax, Shayla, I coached myself. Just be yourself. It’s good enough. Attractive as Jordan was, I wasn’t dying to touch him or kiss him, though. That was kind of weird. But it was also good. Realizing that gave me back some of my power.

  “Shayla?”

  “Anyway,” I snapped back to the conversation, “I was telling you that I’m a writer.” I said this with confidence. “So, I won’t be doing the assistant, uh, I won’t be an assistant for long.”

  He looked at me with interest. “Really? I feel like I should know that, Shayla Sheridan.”

  The way he said my name uncurled something inside me. His voice was strong and clear, hinting more at a man’s than a boy’s. As a little test, I smiled. He smiled too, and draped his arm over the back of the banquette, looking like he had all the time in the world. Hmm, perhaps there’s more to him than I thought. I did like it when a man pulled off being smooth. Maybe I could have a one-night stand. I hadn’t done that in ages, since well before Noah, and before Noah, I’d gone out with Josh for a long time. It’s not fair to compare Josh, though. With Josh, we’d been more like best friends than the last of the red-hot lovers.

  “Tell, me, Shayla, what have you written?”

  I hated this question. It’s the American way to define people by their jobs and to make them prove that they’re contenders. The next questions were invariably A) What have you written that I’ve heard of? And B) So you’re following in your father’s footsteps?

  After suffering scrutiny at countless weddings and cocktail parties, I’d gone back to calling myself an administrative assistant. That always cut the conversation off at the knees. Maggie didn’t like that tactic. She told me to stick with saying writer. ‘Dress for the job you want, Shay, not the job you have,’ she always says. Tonight, I could see her point. Jordan was making me feel competitive. Rather than concede, I parried.

  I took another substantial slug of my drink. “At this point, I’ve collaborated on some non-fiction, and have solely written some works for which I didn’t negotiate cover credit.” What was I doing? God, I sounded like an ass. Jordan is an associate editor. He could tell when someone in the business was putting lipstick on a pig.

  “Nice,” he said.

  “The Observer is picking up my column, How to Be an Adult.” Oh my God. Stop talking, I told myself. “Anyway, I’m pitching my real book to my agent on Monday,” I ploughed on. “Brenda Sackler?” I name-dropped without shame.

  He shrugged.

  “Global-Lion Literary?” I tried. Nothing. I drained my glass.

  “The work is sort of a manifesto for post-teens meets new adult non-fiction-y girl’s guide to the city mash-up. You know. That kind of thing.” Dear God, did I just call my book, ‘The Work?’

  “Cool.” Jordan’s eyes browsed the room. A leggy cocktail waitress with a severe blonde bun and sheer blouse buttoned to the neck smiled. “Hi…I didn’t get your name.”

  Her smile broadened. “Sabina.”

  “Sabina,” he pronounced. “I’m a private club member.” He handed her a card, which she read and handed back. “I think we’ll have two more of these and then move into the lounge.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Silver.” She did a yoga squat to table level, hovered knee-to-knee with Jordan and loaded our glasses onto a tray. Through sheer force of abs, she pulled herself to standing and purred, “If I can do anything to make your evening more enjoyable, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Can I get a vodka and soda with lemon instead? I’m not so much a brown liquor kinda girl. You know what Thomas Jefferson always said, ‘Whiskey claims to itself alone the exclusive office of sot-making.’” I laughed but they didn’t join in. “Big fan of the former president.”

  Jordan and Chiara looked at me, waiting maybe, I gleaned, for further explanation. “So, no whiskey for me thanks. Just, you know,” I explained, “trying not to be a sot.”

  “Thank you, Sabina,” Jordan released the waitress, and she drifted away.

  “So, are you into heading for the lounge? All the Broadway people swing in here before and after shows to do a set or sing a tune.”

  “Yeah, no. “

  “No?”

  “I don’t like listening to cabaret singers. When I’m up close, I feel like I have to gaze into their eyes and be all like, ‘Yes, that’s great! Keep going!’ It’s exhausting.” I could feel the whiskey warming my toes and loosening my jaw. “Like I’m responsible for making them feel good about themselves, you know? No one’s sitting around going, ‘Yay, Shayla, that paragraph was awesome! Keep writing!’ I wish I had some cheerleaders.”

  Jordan was looking at me with knitted brows.

  “Never mind. Forget I said that. Cabaret singers are great. It’s not their fault. I was just thinking, like, how it would be great to have some applause. Just for me. ‘Go, Shayla.’” I waved imaginary pom-poms. My face was growing hotter. “Not from you, of course.” I could feel Jordan waiting patiently. In a Barry White voice, I said, “You must think Shayla wants some immediate grat-i-fi-ca-shuuun.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing,” I mumbled. “Never mind.”

  “I just…couldn’t really understand what you said. Your voice got strange.”

  “Ffft…forget it. Just the flu.”

  He looked alarmed. “Not the flu. I’m not contagious. Just a cold,” I said, waving it off.

  Sabina had appeared and was setting two Manhattans in front of us. Not a vodka and soda in sight. “Your table is ready in the lounge when you are, Mr. Silver.”

  “Thanks Sabina, let me just settle this.” As he was signing the check, Sabina looked straight at me and shook her head slowly back and forth, slitting her eyes. When Jordan handed back her pen, her eyes widened and she smiled. “Hope to see you again soon, Mr. Silver.” She gathered the check. “The bar area closes at three tonight. That’s when I get off.” She smiled one more time before walking very slowly away.

  “Listen,” I said, pulling on my hat. “Thanks for the drink. But like I said,” I coughed a few times, “I have a cold.” I pretended to sniffle and tasted blood. I forced myself to swallow and took a drink of the whiskey to wash it down. I stood up. “I’d better just get going.”

  “Wait!” he cried. “You can’t go yet.” He took my arm down to a sitting position. “We haven’t finished talking. Ten more minutes.” He looked into my eyes, his face softening.

  “Please.” He flashed me a smile, this time with lots of teeth. They were, of course, very white. I relaxed onto the leather seat. Why did I say I had a cold? No one wants to have sex with someone who has a cold. “OK, just a little while longer.”

  I imagined his chest underneath the tight-fitting black western shirt with the surprisingly masculine turquoise embroidery. It snapped up the front instead of buttoning. It would be so easy to undo. I reached for my drink.

  “Great. I was having such a nice time. I didn’t want it to end”, he said. Sabina passed by, walking closer to our table than I felt was strictly necessary. Jordan’s eyes were on
her as he said, “So tell me, what makes Shayla de Winter tick?”

  “Excuse me?”

  His focus landed back on me. I could see him back-pedaling, trying to figure out why I was snapping at him. “Uh…”

  “Did you just call me Shayla de Winter?”

  For a brief moment, he appeared rattled. I watched him pull himself together, face relaxing, opening his legs a little wider to take up more space on the bench. “Yeah, I did,” he owned it. “I mean, you are after all.”

  “Why did you ask me out?”

  Without missing a beat, he said, “Because you looked so cute sitting there in front of the name badges. I had my eye on you all night. Didn’t you feel it?”

  I wavered. If he thought I was cute, maybe I’d get to feel his smooth skin under the palms of my hands. On the other hand, if he was using me to get to my father, I had an appointment with the shower head. Hat still on my head, I challenged him.

  “I’ll give you two more minutes. What question do you want to ask me more than anything?”

  His face contorted in frustration. He was struggling to come up with the right answer. I stood up. “Wait!” he said. “Hang on.”

  “Clock’s ticking,” I said, faking confidence.

  “All right, all right! I guess… can you get me a meeting with your father?”

  Son of a bitch! I grabbed my coat. It bumped across the table, upsetting my full drink. Now the hem was doused in whiskey, and it dripped down the back of my tights as I pushed my arms into it, heading for the door.

  “Shayla, wait!” he called.

  The question couldn’t have been, ‘What do you love about your book?’ or ‘If you could live anywhere other than New York, where would it be?’ or even, ‘Do you drink coffee or tea in the morning?’ could it?

  “Shayla!”

  I blew past Sabina and she deftly protected her tray of full drinks. “Loser,” I thought I heard her whisper, but it was hard to hear with my hat on.

  I took the stairs two at a time, pushed open the heavy, upholstered door, and hurled myself out onto the slippery New York street. Veering in toward the wall of the building to avoid a crowd of St. Patrick’s Day revelers, walking three abreast, and caterwauling Irish drinking songs. I bumped into a pale young man decked out in green from head to toe, wearing a leprechaun hat. “Sorry,” I said.

  He whipped around and looked me bleary-eyed in the face. “No, lady. I’m sorry,” he slurred.

  “Why?” I asked. I looked down. He was peeing on my boot.

  Chapter Three

  As the big hound is, so will the pup be.

  Coffee in hand, I padded to the door of the apartment. A flashback of last night’s date debacle threatened to play in my head. “No!” I said out loud. Living through the humiliation once was bad enough, I didn’t have to play it on a loop. Why did every guy in this city have to be a jerk?

  I undid the chain, the lock, and the deadbolt, and bent over to pick up my New York Times from the mat. The Times was the best thing about a Sunday morning. Scratch that, The Times was the best thing about living in New York, period. This morning was especially sweet because Maggie had stayed over at Eric’s and I had the place to myself. I love Maggie, but our apartment is tight, and we’re always on top of each other. I wish we had a terrace, or a little backyard like the brownstones in Brooklyn, but publishing assistants couldn’t afford outdoor spaces in Manhattan. I wondered what the advance money was for Maggie’s book. If she got rich, would she leave me and get her own place? I shook my head hard. If she did, she deserved to enjoy it. Maggie worked hard, and I was proud of her success. My stomach dropped. I was ashamed that I hadn’t asked her about her book deal since Friday night. I would, though, and with a smile on my face.

  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.”
<
br />   “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.