Summer at Castle Stone

by Lynn Marie Hulsman

  “Brenda told me she’s trying to get you booked onto the national morning shows.”

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “She is.”

  “You don’t sound too excited about it.”

  “No, I am. It’s great. Really. It’s just that it’s not really me, you know. Ever since the blog took off, I’ve been doing a print interview a day. Photographers have been coming by and making me pose with, like, fountain pens and maps of Ireland. You know how it is.”

  “I do. That’s all good publicity. It’s what you wanted.”

  “It is, but I just want to take a break sometimes, you know? It’s a lot, and it’s all happened super-fast.”

  “That’s fame, Shayla. It’s not yours to control. It belongs to other people.”

  “I guess.”

  “That’s the mark of success.”

  I thought about that for a second. Maggie would probably agree. But Mom had been a success, to my mind. Maeve, too. And no one knew Mary’s name from Adam, but she earned her own money and she could do things with her hands. “Maybe,” I said.

  “Hooking up with that Ray Diablo seems to be working for you. I saw that picture of you guys eating blintzes together in Time Out.”

  “Yeah, that was embarrassing. We went down to that Kosher dairy place on the lower east side because I thought we’d have some privacy. Instead, I ended up with a picture of me with cherry jelly all over my face in a magazine.”

  “No press is bad press.”

  “I don’t know about that. I’m trying to keep our meetings to the office but Ray can be very, uh, persuasive. He’s used to getting his way. Every time I meet him at his restaurant, or take a walk in the park with him, someone’s snapping a photo.”

  “That’s what you want. Like they say, it’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich and famous man as a poor one.”

  I blushed. “We’re work colleagues. He asked me to go to the James Beard awards.”

  “If I were you, I’d tip off some reporters. Call the story in yourself.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “That’s how things are done in this town.” Hank took a long drink of his scotch. “I never wanted this for you, you know.”

  “What?”

  “All this. The perpetual self-promotion. The need to constantly be better than the last thing that got you noticed. It’s a hard life.”

  “Well, you manage.”

  “I’m kind of a bastard, hadn’t you heard?” he smiled and raised his eyebrows. “It was hard on your mother.” I looked away and sat very still. I couldn’t recall the last time Hank had mentioned Mom. “She didn’t like any of this. She liked my writing, at first. The early stuff that I wrote before I had deadlines to meet and editors to please. She’d have been much happier if we’d never gotten married, I think.”

  “That’s not true! She loved you!”

  “She did, in a way. In the beginning. Before it changed me. And she had to put up with me to get you. You’re what made her happy. You and being up there in Rhinebeck.” Hank’s eyes glistened. “I think about all the trips up there I cancelled. ‘I can’t go this summer, I have a book tour,’ or ‘We need to do Christmas in the city because I can’t miss networking at all the holiday parties from the newspapers and publishing houses.’” He rattled the ice in his glass. “If she hadn’t gotten sick, I think she would have left me.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Doesn’t matter now. You can’t fix the past, can you?” He stood up and walked toward the kitchen. “Do you want a sandwich? I have that good rye bread from Zabar’s and some pastrami.”

  I put my wineglass in the sink. “Nah, I’m not very hungry.” I watched Hank pull the deli meat and mustard out of the refrigerator. I stared at his broad back, noticing that his shoulders were starting to slope. He looked shorter than he used to. I thought about giving him a hug. Instead, I patted him briskly on the back.

  He turned around and smiled. “Let me know when you get booked on The Late Night Show. I’ll tune in.”

  I felt less and less like that was going to happen, but I just smiled back and said, “You’ll be the first to know.”

  Chapter Thirty

  God is good, but never dance in a small boat.

  “Hey, waiter. Another bottle of beer, and keep them coming. I don’t ever want to see an empty in front of me. And whatever the lady’s having.”

  I made a face at the waiter, to try to apologize for Ray’s gruff behavior. “Just a club soda with lemon for me, please,” I whispered.

  “What? Club soda? Not on my watch. Throw some vodka in that, will ya?” I shook my head at the waiter. I hadn’t been drinking for a while. I couldn’t tell if it was all the drinking I had done since I’d been back in the city that made me so dizzy and out of sorts, or if I was developing some kind of anxiety disorder. I made a vow to quit drinking for a month, and if I didn’t feel better, I’d see a psychiatrist. I couldn’t go on like this. The waiter gave me a non-committal sniff and moved on. God alone knew what he’d bring me. Ray owned a restaurant. You’d think he’d have heard tales of waiters spitting in food. Oh well, I was in his hands tonight.

  “Just think, Shayla, if Real Man’s Barbecue wins best overall cookbook here tonight, you’ll have your work cut out for you. He put his hand on my knee. He’d been doing that more and more lately. “Do you have it in you to write a James Beard award-winning book for ol’ Ray?”

  “I don’t have anything inside me right now, Ray.” I said, moving his hand back to his own knee. “Probably best to keep it that way.”

  “You are a hoot, you know that?” He gave a big belly laugh and squeezed my knee again.

  I surveyed the room and saw lots of usual suspects from the lifestyle sector of the publishing world. Across the room, Brenda was in her element. She shared a table with her client who’d recently won first place on the reality cooking show Prime Cut, and a couple of editors from fancy houses that did coffee table books.

  Ray started chatting to a heavily made-up young woman at the table next to ours, talking across the aisle. She appeared to be the date of an older, bearded man who examined the contents of the breadbasket as if they were meant to be offensive. I introduced myself to a few of the other people seated near us. One was a nervous, skinny woman up for an award for her cookbook Vegan Every Other Week. She just kept twisting her napkin and sipping her water. Her agent was there, talking to her in soothing tones. The editors and their assistants who rounded out our table seemed more interested in gossiping with one another than in making friends.

  Various presenters came and went from the podium, all making too-long speeches that were meant to be clever but generally falling short of target. Awards were handed out as appetizers were served. Agent of the Year (not Brenda, and she looked pissed), Best Food Memoir (My Life with Matzoh), Best Diet Book (Never, Ever Eat That!), and Best Health and Fitness Cookbook (Greens, It’s What’s for Dinner) were all announced and awarded.

  My drink came, loaded with a double-shot of booze. I pushed it aside and picked up the program of tonight’s events. I glanced at Ray, who was still chatting to the woman across the aisle, to the annoyance of every waiter trying to serve his or her section. For a second, I considered slipping out the back way. It would be such a relief not to be there. The room thundered with the undercurrent of constant conversation. The stale, hot air hung low. I couldn’t get a deep breath. “Just get to the entrée, Shayla. Then you can make your excuses.”

  I scanned down the list of awards nominees and lifetime achievement recipients. Tom O’Grady for The Elite Kitchen. His first and only book, he hated it. It was the book that soured him on writing cookbooks. Fucking Brenda — she knew it was up for an award but she didn’t tell me because she knew I’d bail. Just reading his name dried my mouth up. I picked up my drink and drained it in one go. I had to concentrate on sitting up straight in my chair.

  The appetizers were delivered. “A trio of foams,” the waiter announced. “You hav
e duck, salmon, and beef liver.” I stared at the spongy sputum on my plate. It didn’t appear to be food. My stomach lurched.

  “Another drink, please, waiter.” The server had the gall to sneer at me and shake his head no. I helped myself to Ray’s fresh beer and took a long pull.

  As I watched the nervous woman next to me scoop the mess up onto her water crackers, I had the feeling I was in a funhouse. I rose halfway to my feet. From the podium, I heard, “The winner of this year’s Best Gourmet Cookbook is…Tom O’Grady.” I slammed back down into my chair and kept my eyes glued to the stage. My breathing slowed nearly to a halt as I watched a man in a suit take the microphone from the woman in the long gown and cover it with his hand. A third man, this one in a tux, climbed onto the stage and a general shuffling of the plaque and certificate ensued.

  “Ladies and gentleman,” tux-man said into the microphone, “Chef Tom O’Grady planned to be with us tonight, but has experienced some unforeseen difficulty. As many of you know, Tom is an old pal of mine from our days in London.” I squinted my eyes. Who was this guy? “I’ll just say a few words on Tom’s behalf. First, I know Tom would like to thank each and every one of you. Nothing is closer to Tom’s heart than fine food, presented gorgeously, to those with refined palettes who can fully appreciate its magnificence. His reclusiveness now only serves to make us want his white-glove service all the more. Some say it’s harder to get a seat in one of Tom O’Grady’s restaurants than it is to get a camel through the eye of a needle. Har, har!”

  I stood up on my feet and made my way up the aisle.

  “Hey, where you going?” Ray asked, but he was already in my rearview mirror.

  I climbed the three stairs to the stage, while the man in the tuxedo prattled on about visual excellence. I tapped him on the back. He gave me a small smile and kept on talking. I noticed that the low-grade din in the room had hushed. That was good. That helped my headache. I put my hand on the microphone and pulled it toward my face.

  “This is all wrong,” I said, as the man pulled the mic back. I could see Brenda standing by her chair, waving as if luring a plane into the hangar.

  “As I was saying,” tuxedo man went on, “Tom O’Grady’s motto is that the mark of a top-caliber chef is one who combines architectural elegance with the exquisite ingredients one can only find at the far reaches…”

  “Tom hates this book!” I said shoving my face against the man’s chest to give me access to the mic. I grabbed it with both hands, but he wouldn’t let go. Without thinking it through, I licked his hand. He promptly pulled it away, giving me sole proprietorship of the microphone. “He’d be embarrassed to receive this award. He hates pretension, he hates exclusivity, he hates fussiness for the sake of fussiness — note to you, caterers. That foam thing was beyond!”

  I was dizzy from adrenaline and anxiety, and from mixing vodka and beer. I knew I should stop talking, but I couldn’t. “Tom O’Grady’s food speaks for itself. It’s simple. He doesn’t gild the lily.”

  A blonde young woman in a cocktail dress ascended the stage, yelling “Thank you, thank you for your speech,” and smiling tightly. I saw that she intended to take the mic from me, so I launched into my final remarks. “If Tom O’Grady were here right now, he’d be appalled. He’d tell his agent that she’s a sneak and a liar.” I looked down to see Ray at my feet, urging me down off of the stage. “No, Ray. Leave me alone! You and your smoke and mirrors. You represent the worst of this world, with fake dates for the cameras, and your pre-planned package of a life. For the record,” I shouted to the crowd, “we are not an item.” The young woman now had her arm around my waist and was kicking at the left heel of my shoe, trying to push me to the ground. “Tom and I … however… well, I blew it. I acted like all of you, a money-grubbing, success-hungry liar. Of course he didn’t want any part of that.”

  The blonde was wily. She pressed me downward by the shoulders as she kicked me in the back of the knees. From a kneeling position, I managed, “I love Tom O’Grady! There, I said it. But I don’t deserve to stand in his shadows! And neither do you bitches…”

  The last thing I remember before I blacked out is grabbing the blonde’s shoe, and her crashing down on top of me, and Ray yelling my name from the far distance. I’m pretty sure my head hit the stage, hard.

  I still held the mic in my hands.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  There’s a cup for every saucer.

  “Look who’s awake,” Maggie said, as I shielded my eyes against the light. Do you want coffee?”

  “Too harsh. Can I have some tea? Thanks for staying, Mags. Like I said, you really didn’t have to.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. When Hank called me to meet you guys at the emergency room, it was pretty clear he didn’t know how to be a nursemaid.”

  “I’m saying I can take care of myself.”

  “You have a concussion, Maggie. Someone had to keep an eye on you.”

  “I’m going to have to take care of myself eventually. Might as well start now. It’s pretty obvious I’ll be found dead in my kitchen someday, being eaten by my own cats.”

  Maggie poured hot water into a cup. “It’s pretty obvious you aren’t going to wind up as Mrs. Ray Diablo, that’s for sure.”

  I winced. “Forget marriage. I got myself fired from the co-writing gig.” I eased myself into one of Irma and Fred’s kitchen chairs. “The whole thing was pretty bad, wasn’t it?”

  “Hank said when Brenda called him to come and get you, she told him she wouldn’t dump you because your blog is still hot and your book stands to make money but that you’re batshit crazy so don’t expect any new deals out of her.”

  “I think I’m done, Maggie.”

  She put a cup of tea and a slice of buttered toast on the table in front of me. “Oh, it’ll blow over. Hank can sweet-talk her.” She sat down and sipped her coffee. “And that clip of you trashing the publishing industry-slash-declaring your love for Tom O’Grady can’t circulate the internet forever.”

  “No! You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “What did you expect, Shay? Everyone in the room had a cell phone camera. And you kind of can’t ignore the fact that the whole event’s recorded by professional videographers.”

  “Do you think Tom will see it?” I whispered. I tried to comfort myself with the fact that he didn’t believe in having personal accounts on social media. After all the mess with Tabitha, he’d become a recluse in the virtual world.

  “There’s a chance he won’t see it on YouTube,” Maggie soothed. “But he’s fairly likely to see it when they send him his award plaque and a copy of the video. On the plus side, all the lovelorn girls on your blog are bound to love your stunt. Humiliating yourself publicly for love. It’s pretty genius. You could spin this to your advantage.”

  “It wasn’t a stunt. I’m done, Maggie.”

  “Don’t jump the gun. We can figure a way out of this.”

  “No, I mean I’m done. I don’t want this anymore.”

  Maggie put her coffee down. “Then what do you want?”

  “I know what I don’t want. I don’t want to write.” Maggie’s mouth fell open, and she was about to speak, but I cut her off. “I mean I don’t want to write what the world wants to hear. If that means no one wants to read my words, fine. I’m not Hank.”

  “Maybe Eric could get you a desk job at his firm. He got another promotion, you know. Just until you figure out what’s next.”

  “Maybe,” I answered, knowing I’d never, ever do that. “For now, let’s just hang out together for the morning.”

  “Let’s,” Maggie said, getting up to put on the kettle. “It’ll be like old times.”

  I let Maggie make me another cup of tea. As we sat on Fred and Irma’s unfamiliar furniture, talking about Eric’s huge salary bump and how it would enable the engaged couple to buy a bigger apartment before the wedding, I knew that it would never be like old times again. I studied the lines and planes of my best friend’s face
, and listened to the honking cabs outside, and the sounds of the carriage horses hooves on the pavement. I didn’t know yet where I belonged, but I knew it wasn’t here.

  It’s a well-known New York fact that all of the therapists and psychiatrists leave the city for the month of August. On the one hand, who can blame them? It’s the sane thing to do when steam is rising from the blacktop and the violent crime statistics are skyrocketing. You have to leave the city if you want to catch a deep breath. On the other hand, leaving all of the crazy people here to rub sweaty shoulders in the sweltering subway without anyone to listen to their tales of woe or soothe their rampant anxiety seems pretty irresponsible to me.

  I might have snapped myself as I dragged cartload after cartload of my stuff from the old apartment I had shared with Maggie down the stairs and over to the Salvation Army. The girls who lived there now wanted to keep the big furniture. I just had to get rid of my personal effects. I’d spent the morning packing sparkling three-inch heels and shiny metallic purses into bags. Tight leather miniskirt? Donate. Metrocard pouch? Donate. Neon faux fur vest? Donate. I could start a museum of mismatched trendy items that shared no common thread. In front of me lay a graveyard of items documenting the years I’d tried so hard to fit in. In the words of Gwyneth Paltrow, I “consciously uncoupled” from the objects, and my former desperation to be picked for the inside of the velvet rope. I felt light with relief.

  Starving and dehydrated, I treated myself to a smoothie before I ducked down into the sweltering inferno of the subway to head back to my temporary home. The drink cost the better part of ten bucks. Like most things in the city, it was a ridiculous extravagance. I had a momentary panic about how I’d ever pay Hank back the money I owed him. After my internship, I’d get a job, I told myself. And when you live and work on a farm upstate, there’s not much opportunity to throw away wads of cash on upscale health drinks and coffees. It would all work out. It had to. It was my one and only plan.