“Your new essay for the New Yorker. It went up online last night and it’s already been shared thousands of times.”
“What?” Alex leaned back against the seat of the car. This particular piece had been written as exclusive online content, not even to be printed in the magazine. He’d figured no one would bother reading it.
“It hit a nerve. People are sharing it everywhere, talking about what’s wrong with our social media society. I’ve got to tell you, Alex, I thought you were procrastinating, but you really played this one right.”
“I didn’t—” He broke off. There was no point in arguing the issue. He hadn’t set out to write a viral post—as if one could even predict what would make a piece take off. In fact, it had been little more than a veiled rant, coming off some unkind, if rather ironic, reviews of his book, Mis-Connected, a volume of essays about his traditional upbringing in the digital age. “What does this mean?”
“Well, for one, it means that the e-book is trending at number thirty right now. You’re outselling David Sedaris in memoir at the moment.” Christine paused. “We have to capitalize on this, Alex. Your publisher is being flooded with interview requests. You need to do as many as you can. This is your chance.”
To salvage his career as an essayist, she meant. Interviews meant more exposure, which meant more book sales. He knew how this went. Milk the publicity for all it was worth, use that to get another book deal while the publisher was still excited about him.
Show up all the critics who had used him and his absurdly large advance as an example of what was wrong with legacy publishing today.
“Okay. I’ll call Stephen this afternoon and see what they have for me.”
“Good. Good. And I’ll want a new proposal as soon as you can have it done. Don’t let this one slip away, Alex.”
“I’ll keep you posted.” Alex clicked off the line and sat there for a moment, stunned. He’d pretty much written off Mis-Connected as a failed experiment, and as recently as this morning, he’d been sure the book he was supposed to be writing a proposal for would never see the light of day. He made a pretty good living as a freelancer, so that had seemed like a smarter way to spend his time. Until now.
The rain passed almost as quickly as it had come, decreasing to a halfhearted spatter, so he put his car into gear and made the slow, winding drive out of the park onto the rural highway. As soon as he neared the town of Parker, the little icon indicating a data connection blinked to life on his phone’s status bar, and he pulled into the first gas station he saw. He had to resist the urge to check his book’s online sales rankings, instead opening Twitter to see his mentions.
Tweet after tweet with comments like:
This!
Couldn’t have said it better myself.
Finally, a guy who gets it.
Why isn’t this guy married? He’s totally hot.
Okay, so that last one made him smile a little wider.
And then some unexpected ones:
Anyone know who this chef is?
Has to be Rachel Bishop.
Why hasn’t anyone called out @CarltonEspy?
Some of them linked back to the restaurant review that had helped spur this article in the first place, a few of them linking to Rachel Bishop’s restaurant or her page on the James Beard Award website.
The first hint of disquiet rippled over Alex’s skin. He’d tried to be judicious about the details he’d used, not wanting to send more people to read the disgusting reviews that Espy churned out. But he’d underestimated the cross section of readers who would have seen that review and read the New Yorker, or who at least spent too much time on Twitter. Still, it had to be a good thing, right? It called attention to the unfairly harsh criticism leveled at people in creative careers, specifically women. This was the kind of article you wanted to go viral, compared to, say, a photo essay on Kim Kardashian’s butt.
He let out a long breath while he processed the news, then tossed the phone onto the seat next to him and stepped out of his car, headed for the gas station’s mini-mart. He’d call Stephen, the publicist who had handled Mis-Connected and who incidentally had stopped taking his calls nearly three months ago. But first, coffee. He had a feeling he was going to need it.
Thirty minutes later, reviewing the notes spread across his desk, Alex knew he would need more than coffee to get through the coming weeks. The promotion schedule Stephen had set up for him would require a continuous caffeine IV. Print, radio, maybe even some television. The in-house publicist had apparently been instructed to go big while the buzz was still strong enough to catch the attention of segment producers.
He should be excited. He was getting a second chance that few writers did—but those were the books that went on to hit bestseller lists, and his publisher knew it. Christine had to be very specific that he was to do everything and anything they asked of him while she began talking to his editors about a second book.
So why did he feel like he’d done something terrible?
It was because he’d inadvertently given those trolls a national stage, which was exactly what they wanted. And he was profiting from it. The whole thing made him feel like an ambulance chaser.
He made his decision before he realized he was even considering it, his fingers closing on the plastic-shrouded hanger that held his tuxedo. Mitchell Shaw might be his best friend’s father, but he’d also been something like a mentor. In the time Alex had known the family, Mitchell’s company had gone from a modest commercial developer to a major player in Denver’s urbanization movement, all without losing the guiding principles and morals that had made him a success. If anyone could help him put his uneasiness to rest, it would be Mitchell Shaw.
Alex showered and shaved and then pulled on his formal wear, praying it still fit. He spent most of his time in sweatpants and T-shirts these days; ever since he and Victoria had broken up, there was little need for a tux. To his relief, it fit well enough to wear, even if the trousers’ waist was a little loose and the jacket a bit snug across the shoulders, a result of his expanded climbing routine.
Bryan hadn’t mentioned what time the event started, but seven was a safe bet, so Alex timed it to pull into the driveway of the Shaws’ Capitol Hill mansion a few minutes past. He’d once been intimidated by this hulking 1920s brick edifice, so far removed from his family’s modest bungalow in its equally modest east side neighborhood. The Shaws might as well have been the Waynes of Gotham to his thirteen-year-old self. Only later did he learn Mitchell and Kathy had rescued the historic home from demolition during the new wave of conservationism in Denver.
Alex turned over his Subaru to one of the uniformed valets on the large circular driveway, straightened his tuxedo jacket, and strode up the brick steps of the home into the paneled front foyer, which glittered with light from the crystal chandeliers and buzzed with conversation. Dozens of guests milled around with glasses of champagne or cocktails in hand, the men garbed in tuxedos and the women in opera-worthy evening gowns.
He moved into the main parlor and then the dining room, looking for Mitchell or Kathy among the crush of guests. He finally found them in the library toward the back of the house, speaking with a distinguished-looking older couple. Alex took a flute of champagne so he had something to do besides stand awkwardly at the edge of the room and wait to be acknowledged. Finally, Mitchell looked his direction, his eyebrows rising for a moment before he lifted a hand and waved him over.
“What a surprise!” Mitchell held out his hand, which Alex shook enthusiastically. Kathy greeted him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“I’m so glad you came,” she said. “Do you know Roberto and Carol Veracruz?”
Alex shifted so he could shake the hands of the couple to whom they’d been talking, as Kathy went on. “Alex is a close friend of our son, Bryan. He’s a critically acclaimed essayist and writes for the New Yorker, among other publications.”
Carol’s eyebrows lifted. “How interesting,” she said, and did legitimately se
em interested. “I’ll have to look you up.”
Alex smiled politely and exchanged a couple words of small talk before the Veracruzes wandered off to chat with someone else. Now that they were alone in the conversation, Kathy put her hand on his arm. “I saw your post. Beautifully written, Alex. It was something that needed to be said.”
“Thank you.” Somehow the praise made him feel guiltier. “I was hoping I could grab a few minutes of your time to talk about that, Mr. Shaw.”
Mitchell glanced at his watch and considered. “I have a few minutes until dinner. Kathy, do you mind?”
“Of course not.” Kathy smiled at the both of them. “I’ll go check on the caterers and see when we’ll be ready to begin seating.”
Mitchell gestured with his head for Alex to follow, and they wound their way through the crowd toward the front staircase, Mitchell pausing long enough to greet friends and acquaintances as he went. Alex climbed the stairs to the second floor behind him, feeling vaguely uncomfortable about taking him away from his own party.
“I’m sorry to crash the benefit,” he said. “What exactly are you raising money for?”
“The university arts program,” Mitchell said. “You knew Kathy studied music there, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I remember her mentioning that.” Mitchell had been an engineering major and his wife had studied . . . flute, maybe? However comfortable Mitchell might seem with the high-society set, he’d always enjoyed the construction side of things more. An opposites-attract situation if ever there was one. And it seemed to work, considering they had been married for forty-two years.
Mitchell led him past the first two doors in the hallway, but Alex couldn’t help but pause and peer into the second one as they went. That had been his space for nearly his entire senior year of high school. It looked exactly as it had when he’d lived there—four-poster bed, heavy antique furniture, Oriental rug. No matter how many times they had told him he could decorate it to his taste, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to change a thing. It wasn’t his home, not really, and to settle in like it was would have felt like a betrayal. And yet when he needed advice, it was Mitchell Shaw he went to, not his own parents.
He hurried to catch up and followed Mitchell into a modest but period-appropriate study at the end of the hall. Alex took the chair that was offered him opposite the desk while Mitchell settled on the other side.
“I take it your parents aren’t back yet,” Mitchell said by way of opening.
Alex frowned. “Back?”
“Maybe I’m mistaken. I thought they were out of town for a conference this week. We’d invited them to the benefit, since it’s their university, but they sent their regrets.”
“Right, of course.” He hadn’t spoken with his mom and dad for almost two weeks; naturally they wouldn’t have thought to mention their upcoming trip. Ever since he had abandoned academia in favor of commercial writing, they seemed to think that made him a traitor to the cause.
“What’s on your mind, son?”
Alex poured out his concerns without hesitation, telling him how he felt like he was somehow morally culpable for bringing such filth to the attention of the wider masses and profiting off it. Mitchell sat and listened, his expression quietly considering.
“Let me ask you this: what obligation do you have to your publisher to help promote your book?”
“Contractually? It’s not really written in.”
“Maybe not legally, but there’s the expectation that you help promote it, right?”
Alex nodded.
Mitchell leaned back thoughtfully. “And refusing to do it will hurt the sales of the book?”
“Most likely.”
“Then you have a quandary. They paid you a great deal of money with the expectation you would do everything you could to make the book a success. If that now conflicts with your personal convictions, you need to decide which is more important to you—those, or keeping your word to someone who has invested in you.”
Somehow Alex had thought that Mitchell would help him come to an answer, not give him more to think about. “You think I’m being oversensitive, don’t you?”
Mitchell smiled. “If there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you think deeply on everything. It’s what makes you a good writer. But let me ask you one more thing—have you prayed about it?”
Alex shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He’d known it would eventually come around to this, just as he knew he was going to have to answer no. It still wasn’t second nature to him to seek God’s guidance on daily matters. He’d been raised in the Russian Orthodox Church, which focused far more on traditionalist doctrine than personal spiritual experience. By that definition, Mitchell and Kathy, with their nondenominational Protestant beliefs, didn’t even qualify as true Christians. Besides the night he announced he was quitting his PhD program, the moment he told his parents he was leaving the Orthodox Church was the most disappointed he’d ever seen them.
And yet times like now, he realized how much he still reached for some sort of rule book for answers.
Mitchell smiled as if he understood his conflict. “Think about it. Pray about it. The fact that you’re concerned about doing the right thing means you’re halfway there. Just remember, you’re not responsible for everyone else’s actions. Only your own. So whatever decision you make, be sure you’re doing it because it’s what God would have you do, not simply because it’s most comfortable.”
Alex stood and held out his hand to shake Mitchell’s. “Thank you.”
“You know I’m always here if you want to talk. Are you going to join us for dinner?”
“I shouldn’t. I didn’t realize you were having a plated meal. Thank you, though.”
Mitchell ushered him out of the office. When Alex set foot on the bottom floor, instead of turning toward the dining room with the rest of the guests, he headed for the front door. He would do what Mitchell suggested. He’d weigh his responsibilities and ask God for guidance. He hoped that today God felt like answering back.
Chapter Four
RACHEL’S HEAD POUNDED so hard she swore she could hear the physical thud outside of her skull. Her face was mashed into the sweaty spot in her pillow where she’d fallen the night before and where she still lay, now with the addition of a drool spot that wet the flowered pillowcase. At times like this, she was glad she lived alone: there was no one to witness her shame.
She lifted her head, hoping to find a leftover water bottle on her nightstand, anything to get rid of the dry taste in her mouth. She must have crashed the minute she got home. Which would make it, what, midnight?
She squinted at the red numbers on her alarm. Only eight? She’d be willing to swear she’d slept longer than a few hours. Only then did she realize that the light streaming in from her window wasn’t the golden glow of sunset but the obnoxious flood of full sunshine.
Eight a.m. She’d slept almost eighteen hours. In the same position. No wonder she felt like something that had been dragged behind a semi on the freeway.
Rachel pushed herself up on the bed and half-stood, half-fell from the end. Her phone vibrated from her back pocket. She pulled it out and saw that she’d had four missed calls before this one, all from Ana.
“Mrph,” she answered, trying unsuccessfully to untangle her tongue from the roof of her mouth.
“I’ve been knocking at your front door for ten minutes. And I called you four times. I was about to call the police!”
Only then did Rachel realize that the pounding hadn’t been coming from her head. She stumbled to her front door, where Ana’s indistinct silhouette waited on the other side of the stained glass panel, unlatched the deadbolt, and pulled the door open, the phone still pressed stupidly to her ear.
Ana lowered her own phone, her expression turning to one of sympathy. “Ah, hon, you look terrible.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Rachel backed up, leaving Ana to let herself in, and stumbled toward the kitchen. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
Rachel made their coffee automatically, grinding beans, boiling water, pouring it into the French press without conscious thought. The smell of fresh coffee penetrated the fog enough for her to form coherent words. “What are you doing here?”
“You wouldn’t answer your phone. I thought you were avoiding me. Wait, did you sleep in your clothes?” The side-eye Ana gave her wrinkled jeans and sweatshirt would have made Rachel laugh, were she physically capable of it. Even at eight in the morning, Ana was perfectly turned out for work in an ivory silk blouse, a black pencil skirt, and a gorgeous pair of patent snakeskin pumps that made Rachel’s feet hurt just looking at them. She must have stopped on her way into the office.
Rachel avoided the remark about her wardrobe and instead focused on the first part of the statement. “Why would I be avoiding you?”
“Coffee first. This is definitely a discussion you need to be caffeinated for.”
The jittery feeling that had been dogging her since Ana’s unannounced visit to the restaurant came back with a vengeance. Ana wasn’t here simply to make sure Rachel was alive. Given events of late, that couldn’t be good.
Rachel pushed aside those concerns in favor of the immediate one, pulling out two plain china mugs from the many-times-painted cabinets and finding a pint of half-and-half in the refrigerator. Not that it was hard to find, considering there were only a handful of items in the avocado antique. It, like the rest of the kitchen, dated back to an ill-conceived 1970s update, something that Ana and Melody teased her about relentlessly—an award-winning chef with a kitchen that was barely functional. But if Rachel wanted breakfast, she made it at the restaurant. If she wanted dinner, she picked it up on the way home. Her microwave was her most-used appliance.
When the coffee had finished brewing and Rachel had fixed them both a cup the way they liked it—hers with cream, no sugar; Ana’s with a healthy dose of both—she settled into a chair at the battered table beside her friend. “So. Lay it on me.”
Ana heaved a sigh. “I thought you weren’t going to respond to the media. I issued a statement to that effect.”
The Saturday Night Supper Club Page 4