By the Book

by Julia Sonneborn

  Then, I got to the “good part,” as Larry called it.

  “Finally, I must express my especial gratitude to the following people,” I wrote. “First and foremost is my beloved colleague Lawrence Ettinger. For years now, Larry has been my trusted confidante, TV buddy, and friend. Without his faith in me, I would have given up on this project long ago, and I owe to him my career and, more importantly, my sanity.” I pondered what I’d written for a few minutes. It didn’t quite capture my relationship with Larry, but it would have to do. I forged ahead. “Last but not least, I’d like to express my gratitude to Richard Chasen, who came into my life at exactly the right time.” I hesitated, then added, “You helped me believe I could be a writer.” The last sentence was borderline cheesy, but in the end, I decided to keep it.

  Satisfied, I sent the manuscript off via e-mail to Ursula Burton. I felt light-headed with relief. My part was complete. I’d handed in the manuscript, fulfilled my end of the book contract, met Steve’s stipulations. While there was still copyediting and indexing to complete, for all intents and purposes, the bulk of the work was done. In about a year, I would have a physical copy of the book in my hands.

  I locked up my office and headed over to Rick’s office around the corner, feeling simultaneously elated and exhausted.

  The door was closed and I could hear Rick murmuring to someone inside. I knocked briskly, and a minute later, Emily appeared at the door, lugging her tennis rackets and school backpack.

  “Emily!” I said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m taking Rick’s workshop again this semester,” she said, smiling happily.

  “She couldn’t get enough of me,” Rick joked, appearing at the doorway behind her. “I don’t usually accept repeat students, but she did such fantastic work last semester that I made an exception.”

  Emily blushed at the compliment. “I’ve been working on some short stories,” she said. “Rick’s been helping me polish them for submission to some journals.”

  “I think she has real potential to get into a top MFA program,” Rick told me. To Emily he said, “Professor Corey was the one who insisted I accept you into my workshop last semester. She called you a superstar. I’m glad I listened to her!”

  Emily beamed. For a second, she reminded me of a child basking in the approval of her parents.

  “Heard anything yet from grad schools?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” Emily said. “I should know sometime next month, I think. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything!”

  Emily excused herself to run to practice, and I followed Rick into his office, settling into his leather couch. His shelves were overflowing with books, so much so that he had books stacked in leaning piles on the floor and some even balanced on the arms of his couch. Every day, it seemed, publishers were sending him galleys, hoping he’d agree to blurb some new young author. The rest of Rick’s office was filled with an assortment of toys and gadgets that helped him “get into a creative mindset.” There was a soccer ball in one corner, an acoustic guitar leaning against a meditation stool, and a modified skateboard-scooter that Rick liked to use to get around campus. I picked up a book that had toppled facedown onto the floor and placed it carefully back on one of the stacks.

  “I just sent in my manuscript!” I announced. “Let’s celebrate!”

  Rick looked distracted by something on his computer. He raised a finger up while he scanned the screen, then looked up. “What was that?” he asked.

  “I just finished my book,” I said, deflated by Rick’s tepid response. “I sent it off to your friend Ursula five minutes ago.”

  “Right,” he said. “Kudos! That’s wonderful news. Sorry I’m so spacey—I just got an e-mail from my agent. He needs me to fly out to New York ASAP.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, just more crap having to do with our good friend President Martinez. Despite my best efforts, it appears I’m no closer to landing a permanent position here at Fairfax. My agent’s trying to light a fire under his ass. He just lined me up an interview with NYU and wants me there pronto. Maybe the prospect of losing me to another school will get Martinez to finally come through with a real job offer.”

  “NYU?” I said, crestfallen. “That’s so far away from here.”

  “It’s gamesmanship, Anne. Don’t worry. We’re playing a game of chicken, but he’ll blink. I know it.”

  I felt a fresh surge of resentment toward Adam. I knew he didn’t like Rick, but this was ridiculous. It wasn’t just Rick’s life he was playing with—it was mine. I’d worked so hard the past few months, writing into the night, focused single-mindedly on finishing my book, and now it all felt pointless. What had I been working for anyway? If Rick ended up leaving Fairfax . . . I felt my lip start to tremble.

  Rick gave me a kiss. “Don’t look so gutted,” he said. “I promise it’ll be OK. Now come on—let’s go grab a bite to eat.”

  *

  THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, RICK flew to New York for his interview. Carrying a heavy winter coat over his arm, a cashmere scarf draped around his neck, he looked intrepid and dashing as he left for the airport. Even though it was dawn, I got out of bed to wish him good-bye, padding outside in my pajamas and watching him load his bags into the waiting taxi.

  “Good luck,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll do great.”

  “I’m coming back, you know,” Rick laughed. “I’m going to New York, not some war zone.”

  “I know,” I said ruefully. “I just wish I could go with you.”

  “You’re not missing anything,” Rick said. “I’m sure it’s just going to be some dog and pony show. Besides, how could I give up all this?” He swept his arms around to include me, his charming rental house, and the San Bernardino Mountains turning peach-colored in the early dawn light. I watched his taxi drive away, feeling desolate and abandoned.

  With my manuscript finally submitted, Steve had forwarded my new employment contract to HR, and I stopped by their offices to sign the final paperwork. I’d finally been converted from contingent faculty to tenure track, and with my book’s publication, I’d be eligible for early tenure and lifetime job security. Staring at the executed contract, signed by Adam and Steve, I could hardly believe the document was real. I wasn’t going to be unemployed in the fall. I had a career. I had a book. My life was falling into place, except for one important thing. I shoved my copy of the contract into my bag.

  I want more cookies, I said to myself.

  Impulsively, I decided to walk past Adam’s office to see if he was in. The president’s office occupied the entire east wing of the administrative building, through grand walnut-carved doors with the Fairfax motto, “Veritas et Virtus,” etched in gold on the lintel. The waiting room was empty and the receptionist had stepped out for lunch, and I was about to leave when I saw that Adam’s door was ajar.

  “Hey,” I said, knocking tentatively on the door and peeking in. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Come on in!” Adam said, smiling and pushing a pile of papers to one side. “I’m just working through lunch.”

  I’d only seen Adam’s office in the PAW. It was bigger and more corporate than I expected, with glass plaques arranged on a side table and shelves of what looked like law textbooks lining the walls. All of Adam’s framed diplomas, embellished with gold seals and ribbons, hung above the shelves. Sitting across from him, I felt like a student who had just been summoned to the principal’s office.

  “I just signed your contract for next year,” Adam said, reaching over his desk to shake my hand warmly. “Congratulations!”

  “Thanks,” I said, smiling in spite of myself. “And listen—about New Year’s . . .”

  “Don’t think of it,” Adam said. “I just hope you weren’t feeling too awful the next day.” He gave me a knowing look.

  I laughed nervously, then took a deep breath. “I came by because, well, I had a favor to ask. I was hoping you could help with Rick’s situation.”
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  “His situation?”

  “Yeah,” I said, shifting uncomfortably. “NYU’s trying to poach him, but I know he really wants to stay here at Fairfax. I don’t know if you can do anything to help him stay . . .”

  “Hiring decisions aren’t up to me, unfortunately,” Adam said, his manner suddenly formal. “Has he talked to the dean?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “But he says his agent’s been in discussions with you—”

  Adam frowned. “His agent?” he said cagily. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Listen—I know these things are confidential. I just wanted to say that whatever your personal feelings about Rick, I hope you won’t let them cloud your judgment. He’s an incredibly talented, respected writer—any school would be lucky to have him.”

  “Perhaps, then, you should have Rick come speak to me directly instead of communicating through you,” he said crisply.

  I stared at Adam. “Just so you know, he didn’t send me here,” I snapped. “This was my own idea. In fact, he’d probably kill me if he knew I was talking to you.”

  “So he didn’t send you?”

  “No! He’d never ask me to do anything like this. He’s way too modest.” I stood up abruptly. “Forget it. I thought we could discuss this in a reasonable way, but clearly I was wrong.”

  “Stop—Anne—I’m sorry if I offended you,” Adam said, leaping to his feet. “I just wanted to be clear on why you were doing this.”

  “I owe a huge debt to Rick,” I said quietly. “He went above and beyond to help me get my book published. I know you don’t believe me, but he’s a really good person. He’s allowed me to have a writing career—and a life.” I felt my throat tighten painfully.

  Adam was looking at me thoughtfully. “I see,” he said. “That changes things.”

  “You’re going to lose him if you don’t make an offer soon,” I said weakly.

  “Let me think through some options,” Adam said. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll see what I can do.” He walked me to the door and then reached out to shake my hand.

  “And you don’t have to worry, Anne,” he said. “I’m perfectly capable of separating the personal from the professional. You have my word.”

  chapter fifteen

  “THE VISIT WAS PHENOMENAL,” Rick exclaimed when I picked him up from the airport. He’d been on his phone talking to his agent when I pulled up, so I’d had to idle at the curb as he finished his call.

  “Sorry about the wait,” Rick apologized as he threw his bag and coat into the backseat and climbed into the car. “Things are moving very quickly.”

  “So everything went well?” I asked, pulling away from the curb and trying to avoid pedestrians weaving through traffic.

  “Incredibly well. They’ve got some fantastic writers on their faculty, it’s a top-notch MFA program, and NYU is absolutely filthy loaded.” Rick stretched out in his seat, trying to work out a kink in his neck.

  “So the people were nice?” I asked.

  “Absolutely lovely—the kind of people I’d actually want to grab a drink with. Regular folks, not hoity-toity snobs. Real artists, all of them.” He listed a series of bold-faced names, among them the famous writer who had told me, long ago, that seminar was a “fucking waste of time.”

  “So where did they take you?” I asked, wincing inwardly.

  “Oh, all over—we ate at this great little Ethiopian restaurant, and afterwards we heard some jazz at a club. I hit the Strand and Zabar’s, of course, and took a walk through Central Park. God, I hadn’t realized how much I missed New York.”

  I didn’t say anything. I hadn’t visited New York since grad school, when I spent the night sleeping on the floor of a friend’s fifth-floor walk-up and then got stuck in a blackout while riding the train back to New Haven. We’d sat on the tracks in the sweltering heat for two hours before some buses arrived to rescue us.

  “And Christ, you should’ve seen the apartments that NYU subsidizes for faculty. They’re insane—hardwood floors, doorman building, overlooking Washington Square Park. Easily worth twice what they charge faculty in rent! And the pay’s not shabby, either. I’m telling you—it’s nice to work for a school with resources. They understand you have to pay top dollar to attract talent, unlike some places I know.”

  I sighed. Fairfax was a respected small liberal arts college, but it wasn’t in the same league as a research behemoth like NYU. “Fairfax can’t really compete,” I mumbled.

  “No kidding. Did you know NYU has campuses all over the world? I could teach a semester abroad in Abu Dhabi or Shanghai, all expenses paid. I’d get regular sabbaticals, too, to write and travel. Could you imagine? It would be absolutely perfect.”

  “It does sound incredible,” I said.

  “Hold on,” Rick said, pulling out his phone. “It’s my agent again—I’ve got to take this call.”

  I tried to concentrate on driving as Rick chatted on the phone. I told myself I was happy for him. From the beginning, we’d agreed that we were just having fun—no pressure, no expectations. We’d never talked about what would happen if one of us moved away, whether we’d still date long-distance or let the relationship fizzle out. It seemed foolish and pathetic to bring it up now.

  “It’s such an amazing opportunity,” I told him when he got off the phone. “You have to take it.”

  “You think so?” Rick asked.

  “Yes! It’s NYU! It’s in the heart of the Village! You’ll have amazing colleagues and students!”

  “That’s true,” Rick said, leaning over to give me a kiss. “Thanks for being so supportive. It’s too bad Fairfax couldn’t get its act together.”

  “They still could—you never know,” I ventured, thinking of my conversation with Adam.

  Rick scoffed. “I’m not holding my breath,” he said. “Besides, this is a much better job than Fairfax. I’d be a lunatic to turn it down.”

  *

  “COULD WE PLEASE WATCH anything but Jane Vampire?” I begged Larry. “Otherwise, I might have to stab myself in the face.”

  “Sheesh—you’re in a bad mood,” Larry said, tossing me the remote control and settling back with his tub of popcorn.

  “I am. Rick’s being courted by NYU.”

  “He is?” Larry said. His popcorn missed his mouth and tumbled down his shirt. “Wow—I want a job at NYU.”

  “Yeah, well, if he takes it—”

  “How could he not take it?”

  “Exactly. How could he not take it? He leaves, I stay, and our relationship’s toast.” I clicked angrily through the channels, trying to find Law & Order: SVU.

  “You could always do long-distance . . . There’s FaceTime, and e-mail, and . . .” Larry suggested.

  “Like what you’re doing with Jack?” I said without thinking. Larry’s face fell. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I know how hard it is for you. I just don’t know how you do it—I don’t think I could.”

  “It is hard,” Larry conceded. “You both have to be on board to make it work.”

  “Yeah,” I sighed. “And I don’t know if Rick’s on board.”

  I found NBC finally and we waited for the last few minutes of Extra to wrap up. Mario Lopez, dressed in a shiny black suit with his hair slicked back, was introducing a final segment when a Jane Vampire movie poster swooped onto the screen behind him.

  “Don’t you dare change the channel!” Larry said, leaning forward in anticipation.

  “Jane Vampire smashed box office records this holiday season,” Mario was saying, “taking the top spot for an impressive six weeks in a row. It broke even more records when it opened worldwide, racking up nearly seven hundred million dollars in ticket sales.”

  The camera cut to a clip of Jack Lindsey and his costars at the London Jane Vampire premiere, posing for photographers under a barrage of exploding flashbulbs.

  “The movie has turned its stars, Rachel Lynn Evans and Jack Lindsey, into household names, catapulting them onto the A
-list.” The camera pulled in on Rachel and Jack, posing together on the red carpet. Jack leaned over to whisper something into Rachel’s ear, and she smirked in response.

  “There were rumors that Rachel and Jack were getting a little too close to one another on set,” Mario continued. “Rachel had recently split from her boyfriend, Nigel Marks, a member of the boy band All for One, and Jack was said to be undergoing a trial separation from his wife, the lovely heiress Elizabeth Beckington, eldest daughter of one of the wealthiest families in the country.”

  The camera panned to the right, showing Bex trailing behind Jack. Next to her, Rachel looked like she needed some sleep and a shower.

  “But Extra has discovered there’s more to the story,” Mario said, his voice turning ominous. “We recently obtained some never-before-seen footage of Jack Lindsey in Paris on a secret rendezvous with his lover . . . and it’s not who you think it is.”

  Some grainy, badly lit footage appeared, taken from a cell phone camera outside a restaurant window. Cheesy French accordion music played in the background. The camera zoomed in shakily, revealing Jack’s handsome profile, laughing and drinking from a glass of wine.

  “We have proof that Jack’s been stepping out on his wife—and it’s not with Rachel Lynn Evans. On the contrary, Jack’s taste seems to be of, shall we say, a different persuasion.”