Summer at Castle Stone

Lynn Marie Hulsman

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

HarperImpulse an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2014

Copyright © Lynn Marie Hulsman 2014

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Lynn Marie Hulsman asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International

and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

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written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © July 2014

ISBN: 9780007588091

Version 2018-10-25

Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

For my children, Rose and Wolf. You are my everything.

Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Christmas at Thornton Hall

Acknowledgments

Lynn Marie Hulsman

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Who keeps his tongue, keeps his friends.

“I’m sorry, there’s no table for Shayla Sheridan.” I couldn’t read the tall hostess’s expression behind the ebony curtain of hair obscuring her face, but I can tell you this: she didn’t sound sorry.

Soaked from a surprise downpour, I stood dripping on the polished wood floor in the vestibule of Le Relais, a restaurant situated roughly 40 blocks hipper than I was used to. I peeled off my soggy Adirondack jacket and folded it over my arm, hoping to raise my profile a little. I so didn’t want to be there.

Before Maggie called, my Friday night plan was to grab a burrito from La Paloma and get my dark roots touched up and my hair straightened at the little walk-in hair salon around the corner from my apartment. Instead, I stood in the driving rain to catch a 20-dollar cab from midtown to Soho for the privilege of being ignored. I cleared my throat.

The hostess shot me a glance, annoyed that I was still standing there. Dragging her eyes down the length of me, she huffed out a small noise of disapproval. Understand this: I’m a native New Yorker. I know better than to show up at a place like this wearing a twinset and flats. But I’d come straight from the office and really, if I had stopped home to change, what did I have in my closet that was much of an upgrade? Even if I liked shopping, I don’t have the time. I work a 50-hour week at Haversmith, Peebles, and Chin Publishers, not to mention ghostwriting how-to books, and working on my own book.

My own book. My stomach plummeted. Brenda Sackler, my terrifying bulldog of an agent, had red-lighted it this very afternoon. Boom. She didn’t even invite me into the agency to talk about it. Just a no-go over the phone. Access denied. Dream dead on arrival. I wanted a vodka and soda more than I wanted to breathe air, and this clothes hanger on stilts was standing between me and sweet relief. Squaring my shoulders, I mustered a shred of strength from the depths of myself, ready to engage in battle. Who did she think she was, anyway? As if looking like an upmarket shampoo ad qualified her to be the gatekeeper of those precious bottles of Skyy lined up behind the bar.

I caught an unfortunate glimpse of myself in the side of a towering metallic vase, filled with sharp, pointy birds of paradise. Even handicapping for the fun-house distortion of the mirrored curve, I could see clearly what I looked like and it wasn’t good. Dark circles under my eyes, frizzy two-toned hair, and a gray cardigan. The top pearl button had fallen off at lunch, and I’d stuck it back on with a safety pin. By New York standards, I wasn’t even a 5. Disgusted, I shook my head at myself in my reflection. Why would I even think like that, ranking myself? Fucking Soho. So much for all those Women’s Studies classes I’d taken at Sarah Lawrence. I felt so exposed in the open-plan restaurant, with the vaulted ceilings. I just wanted to blend in and get my body behind a table. And, for the love of God, to have a drink.

I didn’t like to do it, but I had no choice. Leaning in, I whispered, “Can you try Shayla de Winter?”

“Mmm-mm, sorry” the hostess said automatically, shaking her head no. “Wait!” Her body went stiff. She flipped her hair over to one shoulder and squinted at me. “You mean, like, Hank de Winter?”

“Yes, he’s my father,” I mumbled.

“Bruno!” she shouted, still gazing at my face. An almond-eyed man-boy in a crisp white shirt appeared at her side. “Take Miss de Winter’s coat.” The stunning and obedient Bruno bowed his head and gently urged the formerly offensive canvas garment from me as if it were a Russian sable, disappearing as quickly as he’d shown up.

“Right this way,” she said, flashing her dazzling white teeth in a smile she now decided I deserved. In a fluid motion, she whisked menus from a discreet cubby in the hostess stand, turned sharply on her heel and Olympic-walked down a wide aisle, hips keeping time like a military metronome. She landed at a “good” table. Not too near the kitchen or powder rooms, and sufficiently in the middle of the room to facilitate seeing and being seen. I would have preferred something along a wall.

But the attention made me feel dirty. Of course, I’d grown up gliding along on Dad’s notoriety, but that hadn’t been my choice. Known equally for his investigative journalism and his novels of manners featuring thinly veiled members of high society and politics, he walked straight past velvet ropes and never paid a parking fine.

I began using my mother’s maiden name the summer before college, the summer I got a job to support myself by working at Austen and Friends Booksellers. To be fair, Dad did pay my tuition. Sarah Lawrence is only the most expensive liberal arts school in the country. But I paid for the rest, except maybe some books here and there and the summer abroad in Amsterdam. Since then, though, I haven’t taken a thing from him other than letting him pick up the checks at restaurants when we see each other, which is rare. And that’s because he always chooses stupid expensive places like this one.

Finally seated, with my shoes semi-hidden under the long, white tablecloth, I relaxed a little. There was a vodka and soda in my hand. Things were looking up. I checked my phone for the time. Maggie was 15 minutes late. Another 15 and I could walk out and claim that I figured she wasn’t coming. “C’mon, 15 minutes!” I silently willed, fantasizing about warm pajamas.

I plucked a fat green olive out of a dish of herb-infused oil and popped it in my mouth. Rolling the pit on my tongue, I scanned the table for a polite place to deposit it. The napkins were cloth, of course. I couldn’t just spit in on the table under the watchful eyes of the countless waiters and bussers. I tried to catch Bruno’s eye. I had an ally in Bruno. He’d bring me a demure pit dish. Or let me spit it discreetly into his waiting palm. The saliva was getting to me. I picked up my purse, and like a horse with a feedbag, rid myself of the offending seed. No more olives for me. I made a mental note to ask for some bread instead.

Surveying the bar off to my right, my gaze landed on a guy sitting alone. A neat whiskey sat at his elbow. He was wearing dark-wash jeans, polished lace-up shoes, and a dress shirt. He wore glasses. Like his outfit, there was nothing ironic about his demeanor.

“I’m so sorry I’m late!” Maggie came barreling into the vestibule and down the wide aisle in geisha-like steps. Even in her towering heels, she managed to overtake the hostess. Smoothing her long, curve-hugging skirt, she lowered herself into the chair opposite me, and gave a satisfied sigh. “There!”

“You look amazing,” I told her. And she did. Maggie may have grown up in the middle-class beach town of Spring Lake, New Jersey, AKA “The Irish Riviera,” but she’d adapted to Manhattan flawlessly. Her chic Bumble and Bumble haircut (done by a student stylist during her lunch break — I covered her desk at work) was none the worse for wear from the rain, and she had on the exact right shade of MAC lipstick (“buy drugstore mascara and powder, Shay, but drop real money on your lips”).

In the beginning, I represented something to Maggie. You could say that my parents belonged to the intelligentsia, but that word makes me uncomfortable. Money or no money, they traveled in circles with innovators, movers, and shakers. Maggie’s parents, and their parents before, worked with their hands and functioned in the practicality of the here and now. Whereas Maggie had lived in a dormer bungalow situated in a neighborhood filled with people who only drove into the city for the Rockefeller Center Christmas show or to consult with medical specialists, I’d grown up in a high-rise surrounded by writers, editors, and those who had the money to see that magazines, newspapers, and books got printed. Even my grandparents had been schoolteachers, professors, and artists. Maggie absorbed every story about being sent to camp at the artsy Usdan Center, and the noted personalities at the cocktail parties thrown at our Upper West Side apartment when I was a kid. Rough around the edges, Maggie tried to blend in with this kind of society. So it didn’t take long before she realized I’d been trying to blend in my whole life. We kept each other’s secrets. How much we needed each other went unspoken. Maggie was reared to be tough and hard, and I was reared to keep my failures under my hat. I loved her, temper and all, and she protected me.

“Thanks,” she said to the waiter as he handed her a linen napkin. She signaled to the waiter and whispered something in his ear. “Now then, I want to hear everything about your book deal. Start from the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.” She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Twins in success!”

“What?” I asked.

“You go! Then, I’ll tell you my news.” She beamed at me, eyes wide open.

“Right, about that. Well, Brenda said no.” I drained my glass, and held it out to a busser.

“What?” She spat, biting off the end of the word. “Are you telling me that she didn’t pick up The New Adult’s Guide to Making it in the Big City? That’s ridiculous!” Did she see your two articles in the Observer? How to Be an Adult at Work and How to Be an Adult at Weddings? Pure genius! Did you tell her that they’re thinking of making How to Be an Adult a regular column?” Her eyes blazed.

“Never mind,” I said. “You win some, you lose some.” I didn’t want to ruin our night out together with a pity party. Changing the subject would do me good.

“Anyway, how was your day, Mags?”

“It was, you know…” she tapered off and her eyes got really big. She was looking over my shoulder, shaking her head “no” in small, twitchy movements. I turned around in my chair, and caught the back of a waiter carrying champagne in a silver bucket, heading in the opposite direction.

“What was that?”

She shrugged.

“So what about your blog, Shay? The writing is solid and witty, and your timing couldn’t be more on the money. It’s so current.”

“To be honest, my blog hasn’t gotten much traction.”

“It still might. You’ve proven yourself with the book contracts Brenda’s given you. And for almost no money! After all those Dumbass Guides you’ve ghostwritten for her? The Dumbass Guide to Picking a College, The Dumbass Guide to Getting Him to Propose…You could write The Dumbass Guide to Writing a Dumbass Guide! Did you offer her the alternate title? Adulting? That’s so fresh! I can see the short-haired girls starring in the HBO series now! Why would she think twice about putting your name on a cover as sole author?”

“Well, the phone call didn’t last long…

“And after you swooped in, cleaned up that mess of a green smoothie book that that idiot personal trainer slash diet guru, slash cable TV personality couldn’t write? OK, tell me this: Are you getting your name on the book as co-writer or not?” She took a greedy gulp of water. I shook my head. I hated giving Maggie the disappointing news.

“Wait, what? Brenda, your agent, told you no on the phone? She didn’t give you the courtesy of delivering the news face-to-face?”

“Well, you know how busy she is,” I said, my face heating up. “To be fair, it was a quick conversation. I shouldn’t have called on a Friday.”

“She’s your agent! Evan would never treat me like that. You’re allowed to call her.” Maggie shook her head. “I’ve been saying for a year that you need to let me talk to Evan about you. He’s a big fan of Hank’s. I think that’s why he signed me, because I dropped both your names. He’d snap you up in a heartbeat.”

I shifted in my chair. The waistband of my skirt was bunching up from the dampness. “You know, Brenda’s been pretty good to me. Like she said, tons of writers would kill to do this ghosting.”

“Bullshit. How many people out there write as well as you? This should have just been done and dusted. Your proposal is brilliant. I bet she didn’t even read it. Does she know who your father is?”

“Probably, but we’ve never talked about it. I want to get a deal on my own merit. You know it wouldn’t count in Hank’s eyes if I got it through him.”

“That’s on you, not your father. He never said that. Look, first thing Monday, you need to just show up there and insist that Brenda pay attention to you.”

I snorted. “I can’t just barge in.”

“Yes, you can. Even if I have to drag you in by the hair, you are going to see Brenda Sackler on Monday. And she’d better give you the kind of book deal you deserve!”

Maggie finished the rest of her water and her shoulders relaxed. Thank God. I just wanted to move on and stop talking about books. Le Relais wasn’t where I wanted to be tonight, but it was wonderful to spend time with Maggie. Ever since we met on Day One as slave-assistants for HPC Publishing, we’d clung to each other. I found her in the copy room, cursing out a notoriously volatile senior editor who cut the line in front of her. She had her fist raised to punch him. The words “you’re fired” sat on his lips when I intervened to usher him out to the hallway. I “explained” that she’d just had a scare with an ovarian biopsy. The mention of gynecology and cancer will cow any man. Maggie appreciated that I’d risked my job for hers. That kind of loyalty meant something, and from that day forward, she had my back. It was just a matter of time before she forced out her dippy, model-wannabe roommate, and moved me in to our tiny, illegal sublet Hell’s Kitchen.

A busser appeared and set a basket of assorted artisanal breads before me. He must have read my mind. I was starving. “Can I get another vodka and soda, and can she have a dirty martini, up, three onions?” He nodded and glided toward the bar. I sighed with pleasure. My blood had begun to warm. The first drink did me a world of good, and another was on the way. Being out on a Friday wasn’t so bad after all. In fact, I was starting to enjoy myself.

“You never answered me. How was your day?” I asked, dragging a slice of dark, grainy bread through the modernist ramekin of herbed oil the olives were lounging in.

“My day? Hey, did you notice the cute guy at the bar checking you out?”

“What guy?” I sat up poker-straight and a fish flipped in my chest cavity. It had been ages since I’d gone out with a guy, and longer still since I went out with a guy I actually lusted after. “Is he wearing dark-wash jeans and a blue shirt?”

“Uh-huh.” she whispered. “Don’t look!”

I was already looking. He was smiling toward our table. I smiled back. He quickly looked down at his drink. I shouldn’t have busted him. “Anyway, enough about me already. Are you ever going to tell me about your day?”

“Well,” Maggie said fiddling with her cutlery, “It was really, really good. There’s something I want to tell you, but for right now, I just want tonight to be about us. We never go out together anymore. I’m always sleeping over at Eric’s, and you’re always staying late at the office. And we’ve both been pounding away on our own books.”

Our waiter floated up to the table and set a pretty pink cocktail with a strawberry on the rim in front of me. “From the gentleman at the bar.”

“Well, well, well,” Maggie said, eyes twinkling. “Looks like your day’s about to get brighter.”

“Oh my God, what do I do?” I leaned toward her, whispering. “Do I accept it?” I locked eyes with Maggie, willing myself not to look over at the guy. “If I do, what does that mean? Do I have to go eat dinner with him, then?” I panicked. What if he turned out to be boring, or a creep? Plus, I was here with Maggie. It was a girls’ night. “Should I clink glasses with the air, but in his direction? Like they do in the movies?”

Just then, the waiter reappeared. “My apologies, ladies.” He picked up the glass, moved it to Maggie’s side of the table, and bowed, sliding backwards from our table, and down the aisle toward the kitchen. Maggie looked down into her lap and sighed.

“It’s OK, Mags. Seriously.” I tried to laugh. “Did you think I thought that was for me? Pfft! I was joking! This is good. I mean, this is great! Now I don’t have to eat dinner with him. Oh no, do you? Have to go eat with him? You can, if you want to…”

“Shh!” Maggie raised her eyebrows at glasses guy. She held up her left hand and pointed to her engagement ring. She toasted him with her glass and mouthed “thank you.” He turned his broad back to us and faced the bar.

“His butt’s flat. He’s not that cute,” she said, wrinkling her nose. I took a last look at his broad shoulders and shiny black hair. He kind of was that cute.

“You can do much better,” Maggie told me. I doubted it.

“Anyway, you have a date tomorrow with whatshisname, that hot guy from Ray Diablo’s book launch.”

“I know, right? So hot,” I said. I concentrated on forgetting about my ex-future husband at the bar and tried to recall what the guy I’d met at the launch actually looked like. And his name.

Hundreds of people had come and gone last night as I sat working the door at the launch. From outside, I listened to all the fun happening inside the ballroom at the Puck Building. Ray Diablo’s brand was the flavor of the moment, and there was a parade of A-listers from the food world, and plenty of television people to boot. Hundreds of people came and went, carrying plates of fancy nibbles. A trash can sat next to my station. I watched as dainty talk-show hosts and botoxed second wives took only a demure bite of their spectacular canapés and trashed the remains. The smell of food dizzied me. I had half a mind to dive in after some of the less-sampled morsels.

I was told not to eat on duty, and by the end of the night the two white wine spritzers I’d sneaked had gone straight to my head. When Jaden (Bradyn? Devon?) laid his card down and said, “54 Below, Saturday, 9 p.m.,” it had felt more like a summons than an invitation. But maybe that was sexy, what did I know? “Really, really hot.”

“Come on, let’s order,” Maggie said, summoning a waiter, and we did. After the starters came and were eaten, I felt a lot better. By the end of the meal, I had forgotten my troubles and had moved on to enjoying myself. The restaurant was, after all, a feast for the eyes, and every bite I put to my lips was sublime. I can’t cook, but I adore fancy food. Besides, I was getting to spend hours gossiping and chattering with my best friend.

“Hey, it’s getting late and you never told me your big news! We talked a little bit about Eric’s new job, and then I talked the rest of the time about how Ray had that hissy fit, and fired his co-writer in the middle of the launch party.”

“Ray Diablo is a giant dick,” Maggie said. “I’m tired of seeing his smug face all over the Food Channel. I hope that poor writer got a ton of money for her trouble.”

“From what I hear, she did. And her name on the cover. She’s one of Brenda’s clients, but way up the totem pole from me.”

“Phht! You write better than she does.”

“Maybe, but she’s making country-house money writing for famous chefs and I’m not. More to the point, no one knows my name.” Over Maggie’s shoulder, I saw a crowd gathering at the hostess stand. The hostess pointed to our table. A gorgeous girl in a gold dress and matching silver wig and false eyelashes, and holding a bouquet of gold and silver balloons was being led down the aisle toward our table.

“Margaret Doyle?” the shiny girl asked in a loud voice. Maggie nodded.

“These are for you, from your father, Mr. Patrick Doyle: Congratulations on selling your novel!” She tied the balloons onto the back of Maggie’s chair, as the tables near us broke into light applause and a mixed chorus of “congratulations,” “well done,” and “awww!”

Just as the back-patting and well-wishing died down, Maggie’s phone rang. She dove sideways to fish in her bag.

“Your novel sold!” A quick stab of jealousy lit up my ribcage and it embarrassed me. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I felt dazed. “I mean, that’s amazing, Mags.”

She held up a finger, mouthing, “Sorry, one sec.”

“No, it’s fine. Take the call,” I said, forcing my face into what I could just tell was a twisted grin. It was just as well she wasn’t looking at me.

“Yes, Daddy, they just arrived, this very minute. Thank you!” Maggie gestured helplessly, pointing at the phone with a knitted brow. I waved her off. “It’s fine!” I whispered. I sipped my drink and pretended not to be there in order to give her the feeling of privacy. I looked away and caught sight of Mr. Gorgeous from the bar descending from his stool and walking out.

“Well, I’m hardly a little girl! Yes, I’ll always be your little girl…I’m happy you’re proud, but Eric was naughty for spilling the beans…”

“Hey, Shayla. I didn’t mean to make a huge thing out of my book deal. It’s just…I thought we’d be celebrating together, shoulder to shoulder.”

“No, it’s fine!” I insisted. “You didn’t know. I kind of set you up, I guess. I should never have said Brenda was excited about my book. I got carried away. ‘Don’t count your chickens till they’re hatched,’ Hank always tells me.” A lump rose in my throat. Maggie’s dad always told her things like, ‘You can do anything you want to do in this world,’ and ‘Go get ’em, Tiger!’

“This is your time,” I said. “I’m happy for you! Seriously. With the engagement, you know, and the book, and everything.” I reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

“Thanks for being so great.” She squeezed back. “You’re my best friend.” She was fizzing with nervousness and smiling like a maniac. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll get the check. Dinner’s on me.” We looked up to find a waiter, but one was already swooping in for a landing. In his hands was an exquisite, sculptural cake topped with sizzling sparklers. “Here you are, ladies. Enjoy!”

On the top of the cake, in swirling script, it said “Wonder Twins.”

I held my hand up to shush my friend. “Don’t.”

We ate the cake in silence.

Chapter Two

Never love anybody who treats you like you’re ordinary.

Stretching my leg out as far as I could, given the narrow skirt Maggie had lent me, I launched my body across the slushy pool at the curb on the corner of 45th and 9th. Good thing she also outfitted me in her waterproof suede La Canadienne boots. I’d planned to wear wool pants and my Timberlands, but Mags put the kibosh on that, pronto. “Shayla, this isn’t Alaska, it’s the capital of the world. Men expect you to show up for a date dressed like a woman.”

“I do dress like a woman. A comfortable woman!”

The next thing I know, I was outfitted in a pair of thigh-slimming Spanx and this skirt so slim my knees touched.

The weather in the city this winter had been the worst since I’d been born. You’d think by mid-March Mother Nature would cut it out with the freezing temperatures and wintry mixes.

When I’d agreed to go out with Jordan (that’s his name – Jordan Silver, I checked his card), I hadn’t realized that this Saturday was St. Patrick’s Day. I make it a policy not to leave my apartment on it or New Year’s Eve. In Manhattan, those nights are strictly for amateurs. My oversight meant that now, on top of patches of black ice on the sidewalk, I had to dodge pools of green vomit and steer clear of gangs of college boys singing Danny Boy. I wrapped my scarf a little more tightly around my neck, headed uptown, pushing into the wind that was trying to blow me backwards.

My mind flashed back to the early morning, when I’d had every intention of canceling. Maggie caught me red-handed on the sofa with his card and my cell phone in hand. I was perfectly happy in my fuzzy robe and slippers, my overgrown hair up in a couple of chopsticks, a pile of manuscripts at the ready on the coffee table. I planned to laze around and drink coffee all morning, then get a jump on my day job by reading slush-pile submissions that I was behind on from working Ray’s book launch. There was no choice but to dig in and get on with it. “Editorial assistants who make excuses never become editors,” Hank had told me more than once. He’d either heard it from his own editor, or from some editor he dated, I couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter; I instinctively knew it was true. Come nightfall, I’d order Chinese from Foo King, and put the finishing touches on The Dumbass Guide to Motorcycle Repair so I could hand it in before Brenda’s deadline. That way, if I ever did bring up my book again, I’d be on her good side.

Before I could punch in the number, Maggie came stalking out of her room, wearing the hand-painted silk kimono Eric had brought her from a business trip to Japan, and snatched the card from my hand.

“No.”

“C’mon, Mags. I’m not up to it. I’ve got brunch tomorrow at Hank’s and I went out with you last night. Isn’t that enough for one weekend?”

“Not when you live in the city that never sleeps.”

“Well, I sleep. That’s where the city and I differ.”

“Yeah, well, you sleep alone. Why don’t you change that tonight?”

“Like I’m going to have sex with this guy whose name I can’t remember. I’m not sure I can pick him out of a crowd.”

“You don’t need to know much to strip off and slide under the covers.”

I shot her a look. Maggie knows I’m not impulsive like that.

“Have it your way. What do you know about him?”

“Nuh-thing! I have no idea why he asked me out. We weren’t even talking.”

“How about because he liked what he saw? C’mon Shay, give yourself some credit. Any guy would want you. But a lack of confidence is a turn-off. Time to prepare! You have to plan about what you’re going to say, and planning how you’ll shift the conversation if it gets boring.”

“I’m not going to do homework for a date! This is dumb. I’m canceling.” I picked up the phone and started to punch in numbers.

“You can’t cancel the day of. He’ll think you’re a bitch.”

“So?” She snatched the phone from my hand. “So? So he’s in publishing, right? New York is a small town for being a big city. For all you know, he could be your stepping stone to getting a new agent. Or he could be the assistant to an editor who’ll hire you and give you a promotion. You have to play the game.”

“I don’t want to play the game.”

“Too bad. How do you think your father got to be where he is today? He played the game.”

“He’s a man.”

“Then act like a man! That’s what I do. You don’t see me crying in a corner when an editor throws a coffee cup at my head. You don’t see me being seen and not heard when I’m around VIPs at The Frankfurt Book Fair or at famous people’s book launch parties. I do what I have to do to get ahead. That’s why I’m not a housewife in a one-horse town in Jersey. That’s why I have a novel coming out!”

“Well, I guess you’re better than I am, then,” I mumbled.

“Hey, I didn’t mean it like that.”

I looked away.

“Shayla! I’m on your side. Don’t curl up into a ball. Fight! I’m not tooting my own horn, I’m just underlining the fact that you can have everything I have, and more if you want it. There’s a reason you’re my best friend. My time is limited; I don’t waste it on losers. You’re funny, bright, talented, and you’ve always been an amazing problem-solver. You’re just in a slump. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps. You have it in you. And the best part is, you don’t have to do it alone. I’m here for you, Shay.”

I tried to shake off the sting of hearing the truth. “I know.”

“You’re just tired.”

“I’m always tired. Maybe being a Jersey housewife wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Sorry to have to kick your ass, but now’s not the time to rest, now’s the time to push.”

I knew she was right, deep down. “I don’t like pushing. Everything shouldn’t be this hard.”

She sighed. “Well, it is. I don’t know what to tell you. This is the way it works, Shay.” She walked over to the fridge, swung open the door and got the milk. Then she grabbed the coffee pot off of the burner. Topping up my cup, she said, “you’re going to drink that, then we’re going to my room to pick out an outfit for your date tonight. Something sleek and sexy. Then we’re going to pick out an out an outfit for when you go see Brenda on Monday. Something professional and powerful.”

“I don’t really want to go on the date, and I don’t really want to confront Brenda.”

“Fine.” She set her jaw. “Your choice. It’s that or lie down and give up. Might as well pack your bags and move to Kansas, Dorothy.” She planted her hands on her hips and stared at me.

I couldn’t help laughing. If someone as dynamic as Maggie believed in me, who was I to argue?

“If I’m Dorothy, who are you? The Wizard of Oz?”

“I’m about to be the bad witch if you don’t do what I say,” she said, shaking her finger at me. “And believe me, those flying monkeys fall into line or suffer for it.”

I took a slug of my coffee, then stood up. “OK, you win.”

“I always do,” she said. “So it’s pointless to sass me when I tell you to sit still while I blow-dry your hair and pluck your eyebrows. And you’re going to shave your legs if I have to stand outside the shower and watch you. My way or the highway!”

I gave her a quick squeeze. “Hey, Mags… you’re better than a sister. Just, thanks.”

“Come on, Sappy,” she said, shaking it off and bounding toward her bedroom. “Let’s get you into costume.”

Heading out of the wind and down the icy steps to the supper club, I was grateful that Maggie had let me off the hook and allowed me to wear her wedge-heeled boots instead of the ones with the skinny heels. The place was all leather and wood, and scarlet tapestry. I was glad the club was warm and not one of those sterile chrome-and-glass affairs.

I pulled off my hat and tried to fluff my crushed, damp hair. Scanning the bar for Jordan, I panicked, realizing I didn’t know what he looked like. There was a blonde guy walking out of the restroom. I raised my eyebrows and smiled. He put his arm around a thin brunette in a leather jacket and gave me a stern look. This was a stupid idea. I pulled my hat back on, ready to leave.

I felt a pair of hands on my shoulders, and I spun around, ready to snap. I recognized the green-eyed man as Jordan. Wow. He was actually a man. I didn’t remember him as being so filled out.

“Hi, Shayla? Are you all right? You look, uh, upset.”

“No! Not at all. Hey…you!” Brimming with nervous energy, I went in to kiss his cheek, to seem like a smooth player. When I lunged in, I caught my toe on his heavy boot. I fell forward, and he grabbed me hard by both elbows. Whipping his head around to keep his balance, he cracked me in the bridge of the nose with his jawbone.

“Motherfuh … uh…uh…oh, man,” I stopped myself from swearing even though I saw stars. The pain was so sharp, I didn’t even worry that blood was dripping onto my (Maggie’s) silk turtleneck. At least it was black.

“Hang on,” I heard Jordan say. I couldn’t see him with my eyes squenched shut. In a flash he was back, shoving a handful of bar naps into my hand. I pressed them to my bleeding nose and managed to open my eyes. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and on his lips sat the threat of a smile. “Why don’t we sit down?”

“OK,” I said through my napkins, “but not at the bar.”

Taking my arm, Jordan led me to a cozy leather banquette. “Two Maker’s Mark Manhattans,” he said to a passing waitress. I wanted a vodka and soda with lemon, but I let it go. “Why not at the bar?”

“I swore off perching on bar stools on my 21st birthday. Friends took me out to celebrate and I woke up so sore the next day I felt like I needed traction. I like to be comfortable.”

“Are you comfortable now?” He asked, smiling. “Because I am. It’s nice to relax with a gorgeous woman.”

My hand flew to my nose to make sure it was clean. “Ha ha, yes, this place is great. Small warm rooms feel kind of like a hug.”

He cocked his head and smiled. “I just have a thing about… I don’t know… not being cold. I positively will not go into a cold Lucite and metal bar. At least not in winter. It’s one of my rules.”

“You have a lot of rules.”

“No I don’t,” I said automatically. “They’re not rules, per se. Just ways that make sense to live.

“Umm hmm. You were saying you haven’t sat at the bar since age 21. How many years ago was that?”

I hesitated. He was asking my age.

“Five. Why?” I examined his face. What was he getting at? “How old are you?” I countered. I didn’t like being on my guard.

“Twenty-three, but a very mature twenty-three. Graduated Yale at twenty-one, because I skipped a year of high school. I interned at a couple of small newspapers while I was there — did some beat reporting — and got hired by Cooper-Prentiss when I graduated. As an associate editor. I skipped doing the whole assistant thang.”

“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.”

“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.

“You know, it is,” I went on, encouraged. “The idea I can make or break a career!” I knew I was puffing things up, but she seemed genuinely interested in my work, so I didn’t think taking a little license was so bad. I bit off another huge hunk of bagel. The oily piece of fish slid off the top in a sheet and slapped me in the chin. “Excuse me,” I said, mouth full, swiping at my chin with a napkin.

“It’s fine, eat.”

“Anyway,” I said, putting down my plate and picking up my disappointing non-alcoholic drink, “I don’t like to brag, but you know that novel about the girl from the Pakistani fishing village who builds a reed boat and finds asylum on a PETA schooner?” I paused for effect. “Me.”

“No way!”

“Way. I found it in the trash on Lizbeth’s desktop. I fished it out, and the rest is history.” I smiled what I hoped was a humble smile. “I’m going into the kitchen to get a cocktail. Wanna come?” She nodded, following.

“But there are two sides to the coin, you know.” I pushed through the door to the empty kitchen. The tray of pre-made drinks was empty, so I mixed one. “Bloody Mary?” I asked. She shook her head no.

“Alcohol,” she stage-whispered. I threw in an extra splash of vodka.

“So, like I was saying, I have to read through mountains of crap to find the needle in the haystack. I was merrily plowing through manuscripts the other day and I come across a ‘romantic suspense’ book. Wrong editor! Rookie mistake from a newbie author. So the story is this: There’s this girl alone in a cabin in the woods and for whatever reason she’s wearing an evening gown and heels. With little or no fanfare, Bigfoot breaks through the door and…they have sex!”

My new friend wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“Right?” I said, tasting my drink. “I didn’t sign up for that.” I stirred in more horseradish. “I thought I was going to have to wash out my eyes with bleach.”

“But doesn’t Lizbeth handle only literary fiction?” she asked.

“Exactly! That was my point.” I said. It felt good to connect with a kindred spirit. “Do your research, people. Worse yet, there’s the awful, terrible, abysmal writer who should never put a word on the page but thinks his work is full of gravitas and import, like he’s the next John Steinbeck or Margaret Atwood.

“Ugh, those people,” she agreed.

“I cracked one open last week that was so pretentious, with such bad grammar, I excerpted it and sent it around the office. I’m pretty sure it wound up being posted on Miss Snarky’s blog.” I smiled and raised my eyebrows. “You know, the one run by the anonymous editor?”

“Sure, I know it. What was wrong with the book?” She whispered, smiling back.

“To start, the protagonist’s name was…hang on, heh heh, heh. Oh!” I dabbed at my eyes. “The protagonist’s name was Keanu!”

Her smile faded. I was losing her.

“Because who on the planet has ever been named Keanu other than Keanu Reeves?” I tried.

“Was his girlfriend named Suri?” she demanded.

Oh. My. God. “How did you know? Um, wait, what did you say your name was?”

She turned on her heel and pushed through the swinging door. Now I knew her name. I’d last seen it right below the line “Frenemies: A Love Story” on the title page of the worst novel I’d ever read. Hanging my head, I took a deep breath and pushed the door open a crack. I spied her with her coat on, kissing my father’s cheek at the front entrance. And then she was gone.

I could see Brenda in the corner, watching the whole goodbye transaction with an eagle eye. The minute my father was standing alone, Brenda was at his elbow. Oh. My God. She was hitting on him! She wasn’t a bad-looking woman. I suppose they’re roughly the same age, but Hank hadn’t dated a woman roughly the same age as himself since Mom.

My phone rang in my pocket, startling me. Feeling guilty, I shut the door and fetched my drink. “Hello?”

“Shay, do you want to come over to Eric’s parents and watch the game?”

“The game? Since when do I watch games? No!”

“Please? I have to be here and it’s so boring. But there’s sushi, and weirdly, hot sake.”

“I’m at Hank’s brunch, remember? And guess what. Brenda’s flirting with my dad. I didn’t know they even knew each other.”

“You are kidding me. That’s great!”

“Euw. Why is that great?”

“Use it! Put the phone down right now, walk up to her and demand to be seen tomorrow! I mean it. I’m only 12 blocks from Hank’s. If you don’t call me in 15 minutes and tell me you did it, I’m coming over there.”

“You just want an excuse to get out of there.”

“Shayla!”

“OK, I’ll call you later.”

“Fifteen minutes. I mean it.”

I refilled my drink for Dutch courage, choosing to ignore that I was drinking a lot these days, and strode into the living room. Brenda was holding on to Hank’s arm, pushing her hair behind her ear girlishly. I concentrated on not making a face.

“There she is!” Hank bellowed. “Oh ho ho, you have done it this time, my girl.”

“Done what?”

“That little number who writes for The Nooky or the The Spanky, or whatever-the-hell, is not a fan. Ho ho, not at all a fan.”

“Yeah, I know.” I said trying to end the conversation quickly. I didn’t want to bring up the concept of rejecting books in front of Brenda, lest she get any ideas.

“You screwed the pooch! Do your homework, kiddo. She’s going to work for the New York Times Review of Books starting next week. You know what they say, don’t shit where you eat.”

My stomach plummeted. “I don’t think that phrase applies here, Hank.”

“Wait a minute. Shayla, you are his daughter, right?”

“Yes,” I admitted, making space for the elephant that has always been in any room in which Brenda and I dwelled.

“What’s with the ‘Hank’ business?”

“It just…makes more sense that way.” I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to admit that she knew we were related, and I didn’t want to explain that I’d started calling Hank ‘Hank’ from a very early age, long before I wanted to be a writer.

“I’m not really the ‘Daddy’ type,” he chuckled. I nodded and laughed along, but hearing him say it was like a punch in the gut.

In my pocket, my phone rang again. Maggie. I reached in and silenced it. “Hey Brenda,” I forced myself to say, “Can you fit me in around lunchtime tomorrow?”

“I don’t have my planner with me,” she said, airily.

“It’ll be quick. I’ll just swing by for a few minutes.”

“Mondays are tight for me,” she said, glancing at Hank’s face. I pressed on, knowing she was uncomfortable. It was to my advantage, but I’d never been the barracuda type. As much as I didn’t like being pushy, career networking was better than discussing Hank’s fathering skills.

“So I’ll stop in around 1?”

“Hank and I just made a plan for a working lunch on Monday.”

“So you’ll do Tuesday,” I bossed. Extreme discomfort was making me reckless. I wanted to get in and get out. “Hank’s pretty flexible. Right, Hank? Good. I’ll see you Monday at 1, Brenda. You’re welcome for the lox, Hank.” I walked past the buffet table and dropped my half-empty glass. I’d hung my coat and bag on the rack by the door, the one at a child’s eye-level that no one but me ever used. I swooped them up, exited, and shut the door behind me. If I headed home now, I could still spend the better part of Sunday in my pajamas, reading the Times.

Button on the elevator pushed, I pulled out my phone and dialed Maggie. “Mission accomplished,” I said. The doors opened, and there stood Jordan Silver. Ignoring him, I left the party just as he was arriving.

Chapter Four

I was at the HPC office and seated at my desk by 7:30 on Monday morning. On super-early mornings, I liked to buy myself a rare treat: breakfast to go from Sarah’s Bread around the corner from my apartment. If I had to be out of bed at six, headed in for a day of abuse at the hands of Lizbeth Black, the editor wears Prada, walking into the warm shop redolent with the smell of dark coffee and baking loaves was a balm for my tortured soul. They offer a special morning menu with lovely combinations. The Manhattan Breakfast consists of yeast bread twists, cream cheese, jam, and an American coffee. The Parisian Breakfast comes with two slices of baguette, butter, jam and a café au lait. This morning, I was having the Dublin Breakfast, featuring two wholemeal and raisin Irish Soda bread rolls, butter, jam and an Irish breakfast tea. It cost an arm and a leg, like anything decent in New York. I’d had coffee at home, tea would suit me better. I didn’t want to be a shaky wreck when I saw Brenda.

Nate, the cute guy from publicity who always wore belted cardigans (which I found irresistible) got off the elevator. I tried to swallow the bite of bread I was eating before he walked by. I’d made up my mind that the next chance I had, I was going to ask him to go down to the Truffaut retrospective at the Film Forum. He was walking fast.

“Hey, Nate,” I enunciated, spraying crumbs all over my desk blotter.

“Hey, Pal,” he said, flashing me a smile and punching me in the upper arm. I watched him head toward his office. Along the way, he fell into step with Padma, from the legal team. From the way he put his hand on the small of her back, I guessed he didn’t call her ‘Pal.’

If I was going to sneak out to Brenda’s at lunch, I had to cross my T’s and dot my I’s. By 8:15, I had checked off half the items on my to-do list and was blasting through a stack of Lizbeth’s snail mail that required answering. Between tasks, I was contentedly buttering bites of soda bread and taking sips of my strong, milky tea.

“Dear Lord, you eat like a farm hand,” Matty Dentino said, sneering and perching on the side of my desk. Matty, all five foot three of him, had started here a week before I did. He worked for a less prestigious editor, and it was no secret that he thought he was better suited to work for Lizbeth than I was. “Ever hear of Greek yogurt?” He smoothed down the front of his crisp, checked shirt, and re-centered his skinny knit tie. “If you eat all that, you won’t be able to fit into the suit.”

He wanted me to ask him what suit he meant, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Go away, I’m working.”

He snorted. “Barely. Well, you’d better get it all done by 1:30. We’re due at the Javits Center at 2 for set-up, so they’re sending a van.”

The Publishing Expo. I pounded on the keyboard to call up my iCal, hoping against hope Matty had gotten the dates wrong. Of course he hadn’t. Shit. Maggie said she’d cover my desk today, but she couldn’t help me with this. My hands trembled. I closed my eyes and tried to form a plan. OK, Brenda’s office was nine blocks away. If I left here at 12:30, I could maybe be there by quarter to one, or one at the latest. Maybe she’d see me early. If I talked fast and stuck to my agenda, I could be back on the sidewalk by 1:30 if not sooner. I could feel myself calming down.

“You should cut out the coffee,” Matty said, pulling a white handkerchief out to clean his glasses.

I grabbed a tote bag that advertised one of the books we’d published, Microwave Meals for Fast Family Suppers, and stuffed in all of the supplies I’d need for the Book Expo. “You should look into tissues, Brooklynite Poser. What man under the age of 75 uses handkerchiefs. Who are you, my grandfather?”

“Who are you, Woody Allen? You are so neurotic. And not in an entertaining way. You really should see someone about going on Paxil or Lexapro. Or at the very least some Xanax. Here, let me give you an Ativan.”

“No! I don’t need medication.” I threw duct tape into my bag for the Javits Center, along with a stapler, some breath mints, and some sticky notes.

“Agree to disagree,” he said, sweeping the last half of my breakfast into the trash can. “At the very least, you need to get laid.”

“What I need is for you to take your Ativan, your non-prescription vanity glasses, and your stupid Confederate soldier beard away from my desk.”

“Fine, but don’t come crying to me the next time you need someone to run down to FedEx or get Lizbeth a table for lunch somewhere that matters.” He half-hopped down off my desk and headed toward his end of the giant room of cubicles.

“Wait!” I hated myself for what I was about to ask. “What suit?”

“Oh, you’ll see,” he said, still walking. “And when you do,” he called over his shoulder, “you’d better not ask me for an Ativan, because the answer’s no.”

Huffing from the run over, I pushed through the glass doors of Global-Lion Literary’s inner office without stopping at reception.

“Hey,” I heard from the girl at the desk, as I took in the view of my agent’s tweed-covered back from across the room. Squaring my shoulders, I strode purposefully toward her, determined to leave with what I came for.

“Brenda!” I shouted. “Thanks for fitting me in. I wanted to ask you about…”

“Tsst!” my agent hissed, pointing her coral-colored talon at my chest. Then she brought it to her lips, shushing me with a scowl.

I recovered from my tunnel vision to notice Ray Diablo sitting in the wing chair next to her desk. He was wearing one of his trademark bowling shirts, this one embroidered with bright-orange flames. I don’t know how I could have missed him.

“Naw, it’s OK Brenda,” Ray said, standing up. “I’m on my way out. You can take your next meeting.” He gave me a smooth smile. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“I’m Shayla Sheridan,” I said. “I’m a big fan of your cookbooks,” I lied, shaking his hand. “I heard you lost your co-writer,” I blurted. I hoped I’d phrased that with diplomacy. Everyone in the Puck Building had heard he “lost” his co-writer the night he fired her in a screaming fit at his book party. “I just co-wrote Smoothie Skinny for Tilly Auslander, and I’ve written several Dumbass Guides…”

“Ray, she’s early,” Brenda cut me off, and shot me a warning look. “Sit.”

“I have a lunch with the people from Channel E.A.T. I’d better head out anyway,” he said, still holding onto my hand. “Do you have a card or something?”

“No, she doesn’t,” Brenda said. “If you need her, I know where to find her.”

“All right then,” he chuckled. He took a card out of the back pocket of his jeans and handed it to me. “Here’s where you can find me. You know, if you need me.” He looked me straight in the eyes, and paused there for a second. “Later, Brenda,” he said, and walked out the glass doors. The phone on the desk rang.

“Brenda Sackler,” she proclaimed. She waved me toward the empty rolling chair at the desk beside hers. No wing chair for me. Obediently, I sat down.

I was pumped with adrenaline from making speeches in my head to plead my case, and my interaction with Ray had only thrown fuel on the fire. I could feel the fight rising up in me. Keep a cool head, I thought to myself. Don’t do anything rash. Act like a grown-up, and this will be your time.

I knew I had a winner of a concept, I just knew it. But we needed to strike while the iron was hot, and I was so sick of waiting for my turn to be noticed. Right now, the phrase “New Adult” was being splashed around the pages of the New York Times like vinegar and oil over ladies’ lunches. Every book aimed at females aged 13 to 30 was being billed as the next New Adult hit. The funny thing was, no one even knew what New Adult was yet. If I got in the door now, I’d be one of the definers.

I’d get booked on public radio shows to expound on what the phrase New Adult meant in publishing, maybe sit on panels with that bookish darling of Tin House Magazine, the Hotchkiss dropout who wrote that thousand-page novel. Maybe I’d wind up hosting a show on MTV called New Adult featuring all the former child stars who now did art films in order to be taken seriously. The time was mine to become a writer whose name people knew. My name, not my father’s.

What I banked on was this: I had a million-dollar idea. A true “high concept.” No one had yet thought to leverage the concept for non-fiction, and I was the perfect candidate to capitalize on the trend, even though I knew deep in my gut that I was neither cutting edge nor particularly adult in my dealings. But I could write. And I could research.

Not to mention I grew up in New York City, Mecca for all proper New Adults. It’s no accident the Manhattan Girls series of novels starring 18- to 22-year-olds takes place here. I went to high school here, I went to Sarah Lawrence, and I interned here. I was tossed head first into the selection-or-cut interview process with my first private preschool on the Upper East Side when I was four. The fact that I didn’t always mesh with my cohort was beside the point. I had a pedigree.

Brenda was silent with the phone smashed to her ear, tapping a pencil against a cup of the blackest, thickest coffee seen this side of hell. I scanned her desk for my proposal.

It was freezing in the climate-controlled skyscraper. Yeah, so it was close to the end of March, but when it’s still spitting snow, people need the heat on. The chair leather froze my legs through my thin tights. Stupid work dress. Temporarily distracted by the cold, I eyeballed the cozy-looking deep-red pashmina draped on the coat rack next to Brenda’s desk. That’s precisely the kind of thing a stylish, professional New York woman keeps on hand. Luxe, upscale, useful. One could drape it around one’s shoulders during a business meeting and still look modern. Or, when called to a sudden business dinner at a fancy restaurant, one could pair it with a matching MAC lipstick, and seamlessly take one’s outfit from day to evening. I wanted that pashmina more than any physical object I’d ever laid eyes on.

Why was I never prepared? You know those girls who have band-aids, a sewing kit, a compact umbrella, and a light cardigan sweater tucked into their chic shoulder bags? I’m not one of them. I’d left the office for this meeting carrying a brown suede Le Sac purse from my last year of high school, containing exactly my phone and my wallet (no hairbrush), and a plastic grocery sack in which I carried an overdue library book and a pair of shoes that needed heel taps. I’d grabbed the sack without thinking and now I was stuck with it.

“No,” Brenda said. “No, no way.” She opened a file on her desk and scrolled through the pages like she was in a race. “No!”

I tried to catch her eye to let her know I’d be right back. There was a Starbucks in the swanky marble lobby downstairs, and I figured if I just popped down to grab a giant extra-hot latte, I might survive. Plus, I knew I’d need the caffeine jolt if I was going to make it through an afternoon at Book Expo America. I could feel Brenda not looking at me. Like a waiter with too many tables, she had thrown up an invisible wall to deflect my raised eyebrows and head jerks.

“No!” she barked at some poor schmoh on the other end of the line.

Resigned, I told myself it couldn’t be longer than a few more minutes. I’d use the time to psych myself up.

I mean, she had to love my idea, right? I’d researched like a maniac, edited and re-edited it. I even paid that grad student ten bucks an hour, which I cannot afford, to proofread it. How could Brenda not shop it around to every editor in town?

I could just picture it. There would be a bidding war, I’d get a huge advance, and finally finally I’d have my name on the cover of a book. That would show Hank I was a real writer. And Jordan Silver. And that snivelly little Matty from my office.

I glanced at the clock on the wall. If she didn’t get off the phone soon, there’d be no time for Starbucks. Panting with nerves, I grabbed a rubber-band ball and rolled it around Monica’s desk. Monica Bigelow is Brenda’s partner, and like Brenda, she represents the books of a stable of well-known chefs including that sexy vegan woman with the dreads and the guy who all but invented gastro-science.

“What part of ‘Monica’s not reachable in Nepal’ don’t you understand? I’m the decider.” Brenda snapped. “It’s her daughter’s wedding, and she hasn’t taken a day off in five years. I told you I’m handling her contracts until she’s back, and I say no. We’re not using that drunk hack to write Tom O’Grady’s book. Tom’s a goddamn celebrity chef! He and his fiancé were Europe’s Kathy Lee and Regis.” She paused. “Whatever, Europe’s Beyoncé and Jay-Z then. It doesn’t matter, they were goddamn household names!” She listened for a second or two. “I know the show’s not on the air anymore. I know London’s not New York. I don’t care, “Health and Happiness Matters” was big news as a lifestyle show. People won’t forget it any time soon. Rumor has it that it’s going back on the air, and there’s talk of it coming to America. The point is, Tom agreed to a cookbook deal based on having first refusal on the writer, and your washed-up lush couldn’t meet a deadline if it shook his hand and asked him to dance!”

The sticky ball I was rolling around caught on the corner of a manila file folder. TOM O’GRADY, the tab said. I glanced at Brenda before easing it open. It held magazine clips, menus, press photos, and a bio sheet. ‘Personal and Confidential,’ the top of the sheet read.

Brenda swung her chair around toward me. I snapped the folder shut.

“Well, my 1 o’clock is sitting here, so this conversation is over,” she said into the phone. Finally, I thought, it’s my turn. I flashed her my most grateful smile. “What’s my final answer?” she asked, incredulous, holding the receiver about a foot from her face, and glaring at it. “No!” She stabbed a button on the phone and threw it onto her desk.

“So Brenda,” I began.

“I’m going to pee,” she said, standing up. “Hang tight.”

I watched her stride through the glass door into the outer office where the interns sat. An idea lit up my brain, and it was like seeing God. I could be the one to write Tom O’Grady’s book! Before I could think, I slid the folder into my grocery bag. I noticed the outline of it through the plastic, I realized. I needed to mask it. In one quick motion, I grabbed the pashmina off Brenda’s rack and shoved it in on top of the folder, tucking it around the corners.

Oh, man, I thought, prickling under my arms despite the arctic temperature. I’m going to get arrested, and then I’ll never make it back in time to catch the van to the Javits Center. The time! I sneaked a look at my phone for the time. 1:10. I turned off my ringer in case snotty little Matty tried to track me down. I had to get this show on the road. Luck was on my side. Brenda was barreling towards her seat. She must pee as fast as she talks. I pushed my grocery bag under my chair with my foot.

Landing heavily in her chair, Brenda shook her head at me. “I read your proposal about the New Adult guide…”

“Did you?” I asked. “Did you read it?”

She ignored me. “My final answer is no.” She turned back to her computer, turning sideways to me.

My heart sunk. “Why not?” I tried not to whine. “It’s smart, it’s on-trend, and you cannot say my sample chapter isn’t well written.”

She sighed a curt sigh. “If I start sending it around to editors, the first thing they’ll ask is what kind of traffic you have on your blog…”

“I can start a blog!”

“Even so, Shayla, these kinds of books get their sales through promo junkets and press tours.” She continued to scroll through her email. “I’m not saying the idea isn’t good, but look at you. You’re not right to be the face of it. Do you really see yourself on camera, charming the pants off Matt Lauer on a morning show at 6 a.m.?”

“It’s MY idea. I have written a good chunk of this particular book.”

“What I’m saying is, I can’t see you as a guest on some pre-Oscars show giving fashion and dating advice on the red carpet. Look at the state of you. You’re about as polished as a grad student from Bennington College. You write well, but why would anyone follow your advice if they don’t dream of being you? It’s aspirational. If you really want to do this, get a makeover, spend a year clubbing and getting your picture in the Post, try to go out with someone with name recognition, and maybe publish sexy, edgy articles like, I don’t know, like the ones in The Frisky.”

“That’s bullshit! It’s about the book. It’s a great idea and great writing.”

“I have a better idea, but you’re not going to like it,” Brenda said.

I braced myself. “Go on.”

“Why don’t we give this book to some hot celeb’s daughter? Like an au courant reality TV star or actress from an acting dynasty family? Or a poor little rich girl who grew up in high society, who needs to ditch the dog in her purse and prove to the world that she has substance?”

“How does that help me?”

“You would write it!”

“I don’t want to co-write my own book.”

“Not co-write, ghost-write. It would never work with your name on the cover.”

“No, it’s my idea, it’s my book, and it’s going to get my career started. It has to.”

“Well, I can’t represent it. Editors will want to know why they haven’t heard your name.”

“They haven’t heard my name because I don’t have a book out yet! That’s what a debut author is…new.”

“It’s a chicken-egg thing. Maybe in a year, if you build up a following.

I knew talking to Brenda about my book was hopeless. I had five minutes before I had to tear out of here and get back to meet the work van. I girded my loins, ready to make a bold proposition. “All right, then, let me co-write Ray’s next cookbook.”

“You know I can’t let you write for Ray Diablo. He’s big, big money and you don’t have a track record.” She stopped tying for a second and looked at me. “Do not call him behind my back.”

“I wouldn’t!” I said, sure that my face read as guilty. This whole meeting had been a disaster. I was about to leave with less than I’d come with. How could I possibly tell Maggie that Brenda suggested I ghost-write my own book? I had one more card to play before I folded.

“If you can’t let me write Ray’s book, let me write Tom O’Grady’s.”

She turned her chair to face me. “How do you know Tom O’Grady?”

“I’ve been a big fan of his since that show, uh, “Happiness…and To Your Health.” I trained my eye on Brenda to see if she was buying this. “Watched it all the time during my vaca…um, summer abroad in London. Besides, I love his recipes for like, Beef Wellington,” I said, naming the first dish that popped into my head, “and Turkey Tetrazzini,” I fumbled along, wondering if I’d gotten the name of that dish right.

She sat very still for a moment, wheels turning, then sighed. “He wants to break the contract and not do the book. He feels he lost control of the last book deal. The writer and editor didn’t know how to handle him. They let him think he was in charge.” Brenda hacked twice then. I think she was laughing. “Anyway, I pushed everyone on this new deal and it’s hanging by a thread. We’re already balls-deep in pre-production. The pitbull of an editor over at Parson Turner Publishing is counting on this book for her upscale, gourmet list. Tom O’Grady just needs to see it’s in his best interest to let the book people do our job and spin this into a package. He’s a chef, not an author. And what should he care, if it’s lining his pockets?”

“Maybe he wants to make sure his stamp is on it.” My mind whirred, trying to take in the whole story from every angle.

“It’s going to take more than Turkey Tetrazzini to please that bitch-on-wheels editor. The cover-brief buzzwords are ‘upscale,’ ‘nouveau,’ and ‘deconstructed.’ They’ve hired a photographer with a huge price tag, put it on the calendar, everything. I’m not going to look good if he drops out.”

“So, let me write it!”

“He’s been very difficult. After the book he hated pubbed, and some other stuff happened in London, the scuttlebutt is that he mistrusts slick, big-city types.”

“You just finished telling me I’m the opposite of a slick, big-city type.”

“You’re from New York. That’s a black mark. He didn’t get along with the last two writers we put forward to save this project. He wasn’t getting them recipes, he wasn’t keeping Skype appointments…”

I checked the wall clock. If I left in one minute, there might be a chance I’d make the van. “If I can get him on board, do I get my name on the cover as co-writer?”

She sighed. “Don’t get too excited. Even if you write the book, it has to be approved by Parson Turner. We don’t know how it’ll fly in the States; it’s mostly for the UK and Irish market.”

I knew a delicate moment had arrived. I smelled that she was going to say yes, if I just didn’t blow it. “But if I can get this written, you’ll give me cover credit?” I took a breath and pressed on. “And a 50/50 deal on advances and royalties?”

She looked resigned. “I can only try, but I think this one may be dead in the water.”

Yes!

“And if I deliver this book, and the editor loves it, which I know she will, will you consider giving me a crack at Ray Diablo’s next one?”

“Shayla, Ray Diablo is big potatoes…”

“I said ‘consider.’”

“Sure,” she said, with an eye roll. “I’ll consider it.” Time was ticking. I really had to get back to the office.

“So, about How to Be an Adult…”

“Don’t push it,” she cut me off. “Your dad’s cute but not that cute.”

I jumped to my feet, realizing it was better to quit while I was ahead. “Thank you so much for this chance, Brenda.”

“Tom still has to agree.”

“I’ll hunt him down and pin him to the ground if I have to.” I smiled, sharing the joke.

She didn’t smile back. “Just get it done.” She swiveled her chair back to face her screen. I waited for a beat, but apparently the meeting was over. I gathered my purse and bag, and hurried out, not bothering to say goodbye.

Rounding the last corner to the HPC building, I surveyed the street for the van as I ran. None. I didn’t dare slow down to pull out my phone and check the time, instead I hurtled my body through the revolving door and into the lobby. Flashing my ID badge at the desk, I pushed through the turnstile and yelled, “Hold it!” at the bank of elevators. Safely inside, I pressed my back to the wall, shut my eyes, and tried to breathe.

I hustled to my desk, looking around to make sure Matty or any other gossipy assistants weren’t hovering around. God, I hated it here. I’d been spanked for working on outside projects before. If I made this call to Ireland quickly and discreetly, I could have this deal sealed before I left for BEA. I didn’t need international calls on my phone bill. Money was tight enough as it was.

I pulled out my stolen folder. All I knew about Tom O’Grady’s was what I’d just overheard in Brenda’s office. I had my work cut out for me, I figured, to craft a best-selling cookbook featuring nothing but a bunch of beef stew and boiled potato recipes. And if he was the other side of the pond’s answer to Regis Philbin, the elfin, 80-year-old talk-show host, the food was going to have to be the focus.

I looked at the time on the desk phone. 2:05pm. All that rush was for nothing. I should have figured they’d be late. I could just see my boss’s back end through the crack in her open door. She was rooting around in a box of books on the floor. As soon as I made this call, I’d check in and let her know I was back from lunch. I’d offer to call the van service to see if they were en route.

Opening my folder, I saw a fact sheet on Tom O’Grady, clearly prepared by a publicist. Born in County Wexford, Ireland, attended hospitality school with an emphasis on culinary arts, then did a course at Ballymaloe Cookery School when he was only 17. A stint as a sous chef at La Gavroche in London, worked a year under Alice Waters in San Francisco. Impressive. Back to London, where he had his own place for a while in Soho, called Wild. Currently head chef at Grange Hall, the Michelin-rated restaurant on the grounds of Castle Stone, situated in the same village where he was born.

I punched in the number of the restaurant. I’d leave my name and number, then the ball would be in his court. I flipped through the folder as I listened to the tinny connection and the unfamiliar abrupt buzzing rings.

Date of birth…whoa, wait. He’s only 33? I shuffled the papers, looking for more facts.

“The Grange Hall. Can I help?”

“Oh, uh hi!” I said, focusing. “I’d like to speak to Tom O’Grady. This is Shayla Sheridan, calling from Brenda Sackler’s office.”

“Would you mind holding for a minute, then? Thanks very much.” A pleasant traditional Irish tune featuring a fiddle and a flute played while I waited.

Underneath the printed fact sheets lay some tear sheets from a magazine. There he was: Tom O’Grady. Twinkling aquamarine eyes squinting against the wind, thick and wavy dirty-blonde curls tousled and pushed back from his forehead. He had his arm draped around the neck of an enormous black and white cow, who posed solemnly for the photo. The green of the rolling field of grass and the blue of the sky blinded me. I examined the page more closely, trying to see if it was all a trick of retouching.

“Tom O’Grady here.” What? I never expected to get him on the phone.

“Hello, Mr. O’Grady,” I heard myself say. It sounded ridiculous and formal. The young man in the picture wearing a bone-colored Henley stretched tight across his shoulders and chest didn’t seem like a mister. He looked fresh and guileless. I’d just let him know how things were going to play out. Most “authors” who got books based on their brand appreciate that from their writers down in the trenches. This would all be wrapped up in a flash.

“Tom,” I amended, “I’m Shayla Sheridan, calling on behalf of Brenda Sackler in New York. I’ll be your new co-writer on the cookbook.”

“Will ya, now?”

“Um, yes, I will.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement in Lizbeth’s office. I needed to put this to bed and get back to my day job. “I’m available to start immediately. I think we should pencil in a Skype session to discuss chapter headings and recipe ideas immediately.”

“What did you say your name was?” I could hear the clinking of crockery and a drone of voices in the background.”

“Shayla Sheridan.”

“Well, Miss Sheridan, if you’d bothered yourself to look at my contract, you’d have seen that it says I have final say over who the writer is. Full stop. I didn’t choose you. I’m doing dinner service at the moment. Tell Brenda she’ll hear from me soon enough.”

“Wait! Tom!”

“Mr. O’Grady,” he said.

“Mr. O’Grady, please,” I begged. “I’m perfect for the job.”

“Oh? Why’s that, then?”

Because I wanted it so badly? Because it was the only shot I had? My brain bounced off the walls of my skull, trying to think of an acceptable answer. “I can send you a bio right now. I can literally have it to you in one minute.”

I fiddled nervously with the pile of papers from the folder. I found more photos: a beauty shot of a crown roast, complete with paper panties, a photo of world leaders from the G8 conference standing around a table laid with fine china and silver, a trio of lemon desserts plated so artistically you’d be ashamed to stick a fork in it.

“Your details will convince me that you’re the one for me, so?”

I knew the answer was no. Nervous, I flipped through more photos and came face to face with a tight headshot from the cover of Sustainable Gardens magazine. Tom O’Grady’s expression seemed wiser in this photo; there was a hint of old soul in the set of his jaw behind his closely trimmed beard. I noticed how his eyes were slightly lidded. Bedroom eyes, my mother would have called them. But with a steely resolve. For whatever reason, the word “revolutionary” flashed through my brain.

“My bio probably won’t convince you, even though I am more than qualified. But maybe my idea will.” I was winging it big time, but I forged on. “What if…” I struggled, thinking on my feet, “What if your cookbook…in addition to showcasing your skills as a gourmet chef…included, say, things you cook for your mom?”

Without warning, a lump grew in my throat as I flashed back to carrying a steaming bowl of chicken soup on a tray to my own mother. It was her favorite food and one of the few things she ever taught me to cook start to finish.

“That’s…” he began. There was a pause. “That sounds interesting, Miss Sheridan. I like it better than anything I’ve heard before, to be honest with you. But I’m sorry, since the last time I spoke to Brenda, I’ve decided to put a stop to the deal.”

A woman with dark hair and a shape similar to Lizbeth’s, but who was not Lizbeth, walked out of her office. Maybe someone from legal? It didn’t matter, if Lizbeth wasn’t in her office, where was she? A whoosh of adrenaline shot through my limbs, leaving my fingertips numb.

“Oh no, Tom…Mr. O’Grady…you can’t do that. You see, I…” My mind was racing. Everyone must already be at the Javits Center. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. I had 15 missed calls and texts coming in every 30 seconds to the tune of “where the hell are you?”

“You see, I just know I’m the one to write your book.” I hadn’t known this when I picked up the phone, but in the course of five minutes, this book had become my book. I had inklings of pages in my head. I didn’t have it yet, but I imagined a large pot of chicken and vegetable soup. Home.

“Sorry to disappoint, Miss Sheridan, but my mind is made up.” He paused for a moment. I sat stock-still, straining to hear something in his breathing that would give me hope.

“Nah,” he finally said. “It just won’t work. Good luck to you.”

I couldn’t even speak.

“Goodbye then, I suppose,” he said and put down the phone.

I shoved 12 dollars I couldn’t afford to spend into the cab driver’s hand and flew across the wide sidewalk to the myriad glass doors of the Javits Center. People everywhere carried tote bags and wheeled little carts stacked with displays or swag collected from the booths at the Book Expo.

I had no idea where I was supposed to be, but I was running all the same. I detoured by the information desk, trying to grab a map off the stack as I went.

A Chanel-suited grand dame in giant black sunglasses slammed her cocktail-ring-encrusted claw down on top of mine.

“Ow!” My hand flew to my mouth and I sucked on my knuckle. I tasted blood. “What the hell, lady?”

“I was here first,” she said, snatching the top map off the stack.

“No you weren’t! And even if you were, would it kill you to say ‘excuse me?’ There are rules to living in society.”

“Don’t you lecture me, you…” she gave me the once-over, “you…riff raff!”

“Who says riff raff?” A crowd was gathering.

“Don’t you shout at me! According to the law, that’s assault!” A pair of NYPD cops ambled over from the opposite corner of the outer hallway.

“You assaulted me!” I hissed. “Look, I’m bleeding. Listen,” I said to the information guy, “don’t call the police, they’re right there. Here’s my card.”

I shot a look at the indignant Dowager of Manhattan. “If the police want to file a report, tell them to come back and talk to my bleeding finger.” I blew past the old lady, who was literally shaking her fist at me.

I ran past miles of booths, some offering snacks, some blasting music, and some with long lines of fans clutching books to be signed by their favorite authors. I spied Matty from a mile away. I could have seen him from space. He was wearing one of those Ralph Lauren Olympic cardigans, and handing out ski caps emblazoned with the title of an inspirational biography we’d published by a double-amputee downhill skier. Next to him, another assistant, one of the office hotties, was wearing a leather dress and handing out ping pong paddles printed with the title of a kinky sex book for housewives. I tried to blend in and swim through the bodies to the back while Lizbeth was busy yelling at an intern.

“There you are,” Matty hollered. “Lizbeth! Shayla’s here!” He hopped up and down, trying to catch my boss’s attention over the heads of the crowd. Lizbeth turned away from the pie-eyed intern midsentence and cut a straight line through all the bodies to get to me. “You’re late! Don’t apologize, I don’t care. Give me some packing tape, now,” she held out her open palm.

Frantically, I patted my purse. My supply bag! It was sitting under my desk. “I’ll run to the drugstore and get some. I can be back in 10 minutes.”

“Useless,” she muttered. “No! I’ll send an intern. Get dressed and get into your spot.”

“Yes, Lizbeth,” I said walking away, but in no particular direction. I’d missed last week’s staff meeting after cracking a filling on a stale bagel I’d found on a leftover platter from a client meet-and-greet. I did not know the plan. I had no choice but to ask Matty what was what. He was wearing a red carpet-worthy smile and schmoozing one of our authors and her handler when I approached. The second the author shook his hand and walked away. Matty’s smile disappeared. “What?” he snapped.

“Where am I supposed to be?”

“Somewhere in middle America, running the obituaries column for the local newspaper.” He flashed a smile at a passerby and pressed a hat and a press kit into her hand.

“Come on, Matty,” I pleaded.

He exhaled an elaborate sigh. “Go between the booths and put on your outfit. Look at the chart back there and go stand at your post.”

I shoved through the crowd and wedged myself into the narrow space that we used as an office-slash-staging area. There was a mirror on the wall, a plot of our booths, some folders with papers in them, and enough space for three or four people to gather behind a makeshift curtain. I hung my garment bag on one of the hooks and unzipped it. Inside was a gingham pinafore, a bonnet, and a plush, stuffed shepherd’s crook. Oh, no, no, no.

I snatched an agenda out of a hanging folder and read:

Shayla, first shift: Handing out press kits and hand puppets for Little HPC’s 25th Anniversary Re-release of Cuddle the Lamb: A Bedtime Story, southeast corner of Booth Number 3, side aisle

Shayla, second shift: Straightening pamphlets and literature on the table/coffee run.

I scanned down the page to see what jobs other assistants and interns had been assigned during my missed meeting. Matty was, of course, on the main aisle in front of booth 1, wearing his designer sweater. His second shift was meeting the breakout novelist of the year at a swanky hotel and escorting him here for his book signing and acting as his handler onsite. Maggie had been crossed off the list and someone had penciled in “office coverage.” This was seriously the worst day ever. I wouldn’t even have her here for moral support. I scanned down the list:

Carly, first shift: Handing out HPC bookmarks / Greeting guests in front of booth 2, main aisle

Carly, second shift: Handler for Theodore Reichel / book signing Booth 1, 4 p.m.

No way. Carly was an intern who hadn’t been in the office more than a couple of months. I worked 50-plus hours a week, and had for over three years. I was in line for an associate editor position. Fucking broken filling. Fucking Matty.

I peeked out the curtain and saw Carly standing by a small table off to the side, filling a shoulder bag with bookmarks. I made a beeline straight for her.

“Carly, change of plans,” I said, snatching the bag and turning her by the shoulders toward the staging area. “You’re me and I’m you,” I declared. “Lizbeth said,” I lied. “Cuddle the Lamb by booth 3, then you’re doing coffee. I can already tell you I want the biggest latte you can get me. Full caf.” I gave her a little shove. “Go.”

I took my position on the main aisle, pasted on a smile, and greeted passersby.

“Hi, have you read the latest from Haversmith, Peebles, and Chin? Thanks, have a good day. Complementary bookmark? Come back at 4 to meet author Theodore Reichel, in a rare public book signing. Here you go, something to mark your page. Join us at 4 for a book signing from famously reclusive novelist Theodore Reichel,” I hawked, shoving bookmarks into people’s hands. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Matty down the aisle. He looked furious. I turned my back to him. “Book signing at 4! Care for a bookmark?”

Plunging my hand repeatedly into the sack of bookmarks, opened the cut on my hand from the old crazy lady’s ring. I knew I shouldn’t leave my post and draw attention to myself, but I got skeeved out at the thought of infection. That ring could have germs residing between its prongs dating back to the Titanic. I looked around for Lizbeth and didn’t see her. Making my move, I stayed off the main aisle and came around the back of the staging area.

“…but she was assigned the lamb puppets and the bonnet. And she was an hour late,” I heard Matty say behind the curtain.

“My hands are tied. What would you have me do, fire her?” Lizbeth answered.

“Why not? Louise is about to go on maternity leave, so she won’t miss me. Carly is excellent for an intern. She could cover Louise for the last few weeks, and I could just move to Shayla’s desk and work for you. Problem solved.”

“I wish, but I can’t do it. You know who her father is. Besides, things are shifting. In three months, I’m planning to put you into an associate editor spot.”

I sucked on my finger. She was skipping me to promote Matty, that sneaky little medicated bastard! I should pull back the curtain and quit right here and now. Wouldn’t Hank make a meal out of that? “Well, Shayla,” he’d say, “can’t say I didn’t see this coming. Not everyone is cut out for publishing. Takes a thick skin. You’ve always been sensitive, like your mother. Never should have moved her out of Rhinebeck. Dutchess County was more her speed than Manhattan.”

I hated that it was due to Hank’s reputation that I was even hanging on by a thread. It was so unfair! I hated riding on his coattails, but bailing on my job without something better on the horizon would just confirm what he already predicted: I wasn’t born to be a big dog.

I went back to my post, half-heartedly distributing the contents of my bag of bookmarks. At one point, Matty stomped up behind me, and spat, “You’re supposed to be on Cuddle the Lamb.” I stared straight ahead, pretending he wasn’t there. Game on, Matty, I thought to myself. You’re going to need all the Valium and Klonopin you can lay your hands on. I hated being petty, but I couldn’t just stand by and watch him take my promotion. I sensed I couldn’t fully trust him, but I always think the best of people. I hadn’t realized he was a true snake.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked the time. 3:55. I had no idea where I was supposed to pick up Theodore Reichel, and really, there was no one I could ask. I’d have to be shrewd. At the side of booth 1 there was a small, makeshift dais with a table, a stack of his books, and a handful of pens. OK, that’s where I’d take him once I found him. Check! Maybe he was being dropped out front by a car service.

Still dressed in her pinafore and bonnet, Carly whooshed up behind the chair and unrolled a screen-style floor display featuring Theodore Reichel’s face looking serious about the blown-up jacket of his book, and snapped it neatly into place. Shit, shit, shit! I was supposed to be doing that.

To my horror, I saw Lizbeth coming up the aisle, leading Mr. Reichel. That was supposed to be my job, and now my boss was doing it herself.

“Mr. Reichel,” I said, rushing up to them. “I’m Shayla, and I’ll be here to help you with anything you need.” I wedged myself between him and Lizbeth and took him by the arm. “If you’ll step this way, your chair is all set up for you.” Lizbeth looked irritated, but allowed me to guide the elderly gentleman to his seat. She could hardly make a scene. Okay, hurdle one jumped, I thought to myself. If I just keep doing one right thing after another, she’ll forget about my being late. “Can I bring you some water?” He nodded and grunted what I assumed to be assent.

“Back in just a sec,” I said, racing for the staging area. There was a plastic tub of bottled waters floating in what was probably once ice, but was now slightly unclean water. I took out a bottle and wiped it on my dress. “Psst, Carly!” I called. I needed to get her and her Little Bo Peep get-up out of sight. She was a walking reminder that I wasn’t doing the job I’d been assigned. “Lizbeth told me to send you on a coffee run,” I lied. “A cup of tea for Mr. Reichel, and don’t forget my latte. Bring Matty an Americano with an espresso shot.” She looked at me funny. I shrugged, “That’s what he asked for,” I told her with wide eyes. Matty only drank decaf.

I could not believe what was coming out of my mouth. I never lied. To me, it was always more trouble than it was worth. Besides, it felt slimy. Who was I? Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound, I thought. “No, Carly! Go the back way, it’s faster.”

“All right. Tell Lizbeth I’ll be right back,” she called over her shoulder.

“Will do!” I called, giving a huge wave, like I was sending someone out to sea.

I slipped around the curtain and saw that a line was forming at the table. The crowd thickened.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I shouted about the hustle and bustle of the expo. “If you’d like to purchase a book, step to the left. If you have a book to be signed and would like to meet Mr. Reichel, please step to the right.” Pleased with myself, I stepped up onto the dais and positioned myself behind and to the right of the author. I felt cool, like a royal guard or a secret service agent.

I heard her before I saw her. It’s hard to believe the click-clack of those Chanel pumps as worn by a 90-pound woman could be loud enough to carry, but it did. Hurtling toward the HPC area was the crazy lady from the lobby, flanked by the two uniformed NYPD officers. “Step right up, please,” I told the first woman in line. “If you could all have your books open to the title page, that would be a great help to Mr. Reichel,” I advised, stepping down off the dais to cut off the officers at the pass. I’d simply ask them not to disturb my author, and let them know I’d find them to make a statement after the signing. As I stepped down, the be-Chaneled gnome in the giant bug glasses tried to step up. The officers appeared at her side in a flash, lifting her like a dancer from a 1960s Broadway musical onto the level with the renowned media-dodger and hermit, Theodore Reichel.

“Ma’am!” I said sharply from the ground. “This is a private event. You cannot be up there.” She ignored me, walked over and took Reichel’s hand.

“Ma’am!” I said sternly.

“This is my wife,” the author said. The old lady whispered something in his ear.

“One moment, ladies and gentlemen,” I shouted to the crowd. “Please continue to open your books to the title page to assist Mr. Reichel. Officers,” I whispered, beckoning them near, “I can explain. You see, she attacked me.” I leaned in, “She’s very confused. I won’t press charges, I have a soft spot for the elderly.” I smiled humbly as they stared at me. Maybe I wasn’t exactly a hero, but I was impressed with my own maturity. They must be grateful for my making their job just that much easier. I flashed them a winning smile.

I stepped up and put my hand on Reichel’s shoulder just as Lizbeth was easing the old woman off the other side of the dais. Matty rushed forward to grab a wizened, silk-covered arm. “I am so sorry about that, Mr. Reichel.” I glanced sideways to see Lizbeth bent double, the Park Avenue Madame whispering into her ear.

Sick with dread, I made myself look at Lizbeth.

“You’re fired,” she mouthed.

Chapter Five

There is nothing so bad that it couldn’t be worse.

Maggie opened the door to the apartment like she was entering a hospital room.

“Hello?” she said, softly knocking on the half-open door, even though she lives here.

“No point tap-dancing around it; I got fired.” I was sitting at the kitchen table in my pajamas and bathrobe, my hair pulled back into the scrunchie I used when I washed my face. I had the stolen cashmere pashmina from my agent’s office wrapped around my shoulders like a shawl. Spread out in front of me was an open bottle of sauvignon blanc, a glass, and Tom O’Grady’s bio materials.

“I know. I heard.”

“At least you didn’t have to see it.” I’d had to leave the Javits Center and report to HPC security in order to clear out my desk. It was just like the movies. Two armed guards gave me an empty cardboard box with a lid and escorted me to my desk, watching carefully to make sure I didn’t make off with any staplers or hand sanitizer. Like a prisoner leaving the penitentiary, I was led to the front door and launched out onto the world without a roadmap for the future. I wanted to take a cab, but I lugged my box to the bus stop instead. The unemployed didn’t take cabs.

“Want a glass?”

“Yes, please,” she said taking off her coat, and setting her computer bag aside. I grabbed a glass from the cabinet and poured in what was left of the bottle. It was a scant half inch. “Oops.”

She went to the fridge and pulled out another. “You’ve been drinking a lot lately, Shayla.”

“I just got fired!” I defended myself. She had a point, though. Historically speaking, I was not a big lush or partier.

“Right, and tonight’s understandable. But it’s not like you to go overboard so many nights in any given week.” She kicked off her shoes and poured herself a drink. “Is something wrong?”

“Everything’s wrong right now,” I said. I felt guilty. I didn’t want to put Maggie on the spot for being happy. She deserved her boyfriend and her book deal, and even her shitty job at HPC, where she’d be promoted in no time flat, if she didn’t quit to be a full-time writer. “Hey, don’t worry about me. I just need a night to process all of this. Tomorrow, I’ll see the bright side.” I wasn’t sure that was strictly true, but I didn’t want to be a complete downer.

“I know you’re putting on a brave face, but there is always a bright side. If you really feel like everything’s wrong, you have to make a radical change. When I was in college, I got dumped and I moped around the dorm with dirty hair, playing Duncan Sheik albums for a month. Finally, my hall monitor sat me down and said, “Look, you have to do something. It doesn’t matter what it is, but do something. You’re annoying.”

“Are you saying I’m annoying?”

“Not yet, but you will be soon enough if you don’t take action. Annoying and an alcoholic.”

“I’m not an alcoholic! I’m just drinking to take the edge off. Matty said everyone in New York is on anti-anxiety meds and tranquilizers.”

“If your nerves are strung that tight, then maybe you need to move to Arizona and join a sweat lodge, or a go to a Buddhist monastery or something. I mean it, Shay, sometimes a really radical change is called for. Look at Oprah. She wakes up one day and decides to stop doing Jerry Springer-like TV and be uplifting instead. Next thing you know, she’s queen of the world.” Maggie pulled a photo out of my pile of papers and spun it around to face her. “Hell-o! Who’s this hottie?”

“That’s right! I haven’t seen you all day. He’s the guy whose book I don’t get to write.”

She held up one of him in formal chef’s whites and a tall hat. “Nice,” she declared. She held up another of him posing stiffly in a tux, in mid-handshake with the president. “Handsome,” she declared. Pulling an action shot of him shearing a sheep while wearing a waffled thermal shirt pulled tight across his chest, and a pair of torn cords, she yelled, “Yes, please!”

“I know, right?”

She rifled through more photos and tear sheets. “He looks good dressed up, and all, but the sweet spot for me is that farm-boy thing. Sweaty and dirty with muscles rippling. Mm-mm-mm! Hey look, this restaurant is just a town or two over from Wicklow, where Gran’s sister and the rest of that side of the family live over in Ireland. Did Brenda give you this stuff? And by the way, is that a new pashmina?”

I ignored the pashmina question and gave Maggie the blow-by-blow beginning with breakfast with Matty, to my meeting with Brenda, to getting shot down trans-Atlantically by Tom O’Grady, to my near-arrest and, finally, my firing.

I finished my tale of woe and she sat silent for a minute. Then she poured herself another glass and declared, “You have to go there.”

“Where?”

“To Ireland, of course.”

“You’re out of your mind. For what?”

“To write his book.”

“He said no.”

“So. Go over there and make him say yes. Do something.”

Images flashed through my head: Me, stepping off the plane and into a waiting limo to be whisked to Tom O’Grady’s world-class restaurant, where we’d drink champagne while he told his life story into a recorder; Me, yawning awake in silk pajamas between high-thread-count sheets in one of Castle Stone’s master bedroom-range guest rooms; Me, posing for photos at The Guild of Food Writer’s Awards, Hank in the front row, clapping with satisfaction.

Maybe it was the wine, but it dawned on me that this idea was the best and only possible answer. “Yeah, that’s something I could do. It’s better than sitting around being annoying, right?”

There was a light in Maggie’s eyes and I could see her wheels turning. “Get me my laptop,” she ordered. “And open another bottle of wine.”

While I uncorked our last bottle, she got to work pricing airfares, and emailing and Facebooking relatives. “Give me your credit card,” she demanded.

“Are you booking a flight? Right now?” Curling my legs under myself, I realized I felt gun-shy. “I just got fired. I’m still paying off my student loans and that credit card debt from right after college.”

“Good point.” She leaped up and fetched her purse. “I’ll put it on mine.” Before I could protest, she held up a warning hand. “Stop. You’ll pay me when Brenda cuts you that advance check.”

Weakly, I told her, “There’s no promise of an advance. I don’t even have a contract.”

“No matter,” she said. “You’re going to get that book written and then she’ll have to pay you. The money will come later rather than sooner. You have a verbal agreement and if she punks on it I’ll have Eric send letters from the firm. If we need to lawyer up, we’ll lawyer up.” I was alarmed. It must have shown on my face.

“It won’t come to that,” she assured me, typing in her credit card numbers. “Brenda needs that book done, she assigned it to you, and you are going to deliver.”

Warmth rose up in my chest. I stared at my friend, who was efficiently setting my life’s wheels in motion. How lucky was I to have someone so firmly in my corner. The way Maggie treated me was so different from the way Hank treated me.

“You really believe in me, don’t you Mags?”

“Damn straight, I do. And I’m never wrong.”

I couldn’t argue with that. Maggie has always bet on the right horse and come out a winner.

She continued, “Oh, look! My cousin Des is answering my PM. It’s late there…he usually works nights. Must be his day off. He’s typing…he says ‘Ah sure, I’ll pick her up at the airport’ and asks ‘Is she a ride?’” Maggie laughed. “He’s disgusting,” she said, typing back. “He says tomorrow morning he’ll ask my Auntie Fiona if you can stay with them. I’m sure she’ll say yes. She’s the one who helped me apply to that summer literature seminar at Trinity College. Then I stayed at her house in Wicklow. It’s close to where you need to be. Castle Stone is in Ballykelty. It’s a little village in County Wexford. The beach there is where they filmed Saving Private Ryan, but you’d never know it. There’s not a sign in sight. The locals don’t like to draw attention to themselves. You’re going to love it, Shay!”

Hearing Maggie rattle off the names of the foreign people, buildings, towns, and counties made me dizzy. Or maybe it was the wine. I’d forgotten to eat dinner again. “Starting tomorrow,” I vowed, “I’ll take better care of myself. I’ll start the day with herbal tea and eat balanced meals. I’ll start sending out resumés and get a lucrative day job somewhere where they’ll treat me with respect.”

I heard my phone ping. I glanced at it and struggled to focus. It was an e-ticket confirmation from Aer Lingus.

“Uh, Maggie. When is my flight?” I held the phone back from my face, trying to read the tiny, blurry words.

“Tomorrow morning.” She slammed her laptop shut. “The car service is coming at 4:30, so we’d better start packing. You’re welcome.”

Chapter Six

The future is not set, there is no fate but what we make for ourselves.

I was counting the seconds until the plane hit a comfortable cruising altitude. My hands shook. I had barely gotten three hours of sleep and I was pretty sure I was still drunk. I needed a coffee just to keep me upright. Sitting in the window seat almost at the back of the plane, I held hope that the middle seat in my row of three would stay empty. Just as the crew swung the cabin door closed, a cheerful red-faced guy pushed in, banging every person on the left-hand aisle in the head with his briefcase, apologizing to each. Of course, he wedged in next to me, where his hammy forearm was now hogging the armrest. I was freezing, but I didn’t dare push the call button for a blanket lest I draw attention to myself and give him a reason to speak to me.

What had Maggie been thinking, sending me to the ends of the earth to chase down a crabby chef who wanted no part of me? As I walked through the temporary hallway-on-wheels, I told myself to simply turn around and go home. I didn’t have the guts to defy Maggie, though. So here I sat, trapped next to Sunny McSausagefingers, being forced to inhale his fresh and grassy aftershave.

Contorting my body in the tiny space, I fished between my legs to root around for my (Brenda’s) pashmina. I felt a hard, rectangular something wrapped in crinkly paper. I wedged it out of my bag and into my lap. It was a present, with a card on the front.

Dear Shay — I was saving this for your birthday, but I want you to have it now to keep you company on this trip. I know you must be scared, but I have a feeling you’re going to get everything you ever wanted. Love, Mags. P.S. If you have the chance to leap into bed with a sexy aul Irishman (anyone but my cousin Des!) do it. What happens in Ireland, stays in Ireland.

What did Maggie know about being scared? She was a luck magnet and her future was being paved for her in gold, brick by brick. I knew Maggie loved me and that her goal was to reach down and pull me up with her. I knew how lucky I was to have her pushing me. And yet… and yet… why everyone else and not me? My guilt at thinking this about my best friend made my muscles tight. Was there any feeling worse than covetousness? I had to talk myself down off a ledge. As they say, “compare and despair.” I reminded myself that Maggie wasn’t born with a silver spoon in her mouth, and shifted my focus to the positive. After all, she’d set the wheels in motion to help me fix my life and she’d packed me a gift to boot.

I slid my present out of the wrapping paper. It was a beautiful journal, covered in nubby, sage green, handmade paper with yellow dried flowers pressed into it. It looked like a spring field. It was almost too pretty to write in. There was even a pen to go with it — just the kind I liked, with a clicker on top, a clip for attaching, and a nice heavy weight. It was a retro sunny yellow color. The words Kate’s Paperie appeared in demure typeface on the inside of the back cover of my new journal Maggie knew that was one of my favorite stores in all New York. I turned the book over in my hands. I admired it. Maggie intended to make me happy with this gift, pure and simple. I noticed a little sheet sticking out. It read,

This present is not for saving, it’s for using. Signed, Margaret Doyle, Queen of Everything.

I lay my head back against the seat, smiling about my new gift. Packing a neck pillow would have been a good idea. I was tired, but so tense at the same time. My shoulders were in knots. “I’ll just close my eyes for a minute, just until the beverage cart come by with some coffee,” I thought. I tried to rest, but my mind wouldn’t quiet.

Tracing my fingers lightly over the relief of the flowers on my new journal, I remembered the daffodils that pushed up at my grandparent’s house upstate, sometimes before it was really even warm outside. My mom grew up in that house, situated on the east bank of the Hudson River. I toured colleges up that way: Vassar, Bard, Concordia. Hank pushed for Columbia or NYU so I wouldn’t have to leave the city.

“New York is the capital of the world,” he told me. “It’s the place to grab life by the balls.” At the time, the idea of grabbing anyone or anything by the balls seemed out of my wheelhouse. I needed to proceed at a slower pace; to test the waters. We compromised on Sarah Lawrence. “Good for writers; close to urban life,” so Hank said. The scholarly and artistic atmosphere suited me. That, and the culture of accepting hairy legs and a wardrobe of sweat suits. My seminars required prep time. I didn’t have the time or energy to doll up for classes.

When I was a little kid, mom and I had spent summers with my grandparents in Rhinebeck. I could almost smell the tomatoes she grew; she loved them so much, sometimes we’d eat them straight from the vine, still warm from the sun. And Grandma had her wonderful black and white Border Collie, Pip. I was so sad when he had died. Poor old Pip. When his time came, he was so weak Grandma fed him baby formula from a dropper to keep his mouth moist. His breathing became more and more rattled with each hour. That last night, we curled up next to his fuzzy donut bed by the fireplace and laid our hands on him as his body shook in one last violent spasm before he lay quiet. She and I spooned together and cried. We didn’t bury his body till the next morning.

I pushed away my thoughts and lay my head back, trying to blank my mind.

“Focus on one breath in, one breath out, breathing in a circle,” the yoga teacher from the one class I’d ever taken tried to teach me. I didn’t want to think about Pip, or Grandma, or how scared I was to be going halfway around the world alone. I pictured the tension in my shoulders liquefying, draining away. My body craved sleep. Breathing in, breathing out. The buzz of the aircraft and the vibration of the seat lulled me. The voices of the other travelers, popping of the soda cans, the thump of tray tables all faded away.

I emerged from the nothingness walking the hallway of Hank’s Upper West Side apartment, or at least it seemed like Hank’s place. Vines adorned the ceilings. They crawled with hissing cockroaches and tiny birds that shrieked occasional high-pitched complaints. I didn’t want to walk underneath these creatures.

It was very cold and dimly lit. I was only in my nightgown, wrapped in a red duvet, but when the elevator door opened, I got on anyway. Lizbeth and Jordan Silver were on, too. I stayed still so they wouldn’t see me. On the ground floor, I hugged Dmitry and told him I’d miss him, and that he’d been like a father to me. He tried to hide the cigarette in his hand. The smoke choked me but I said, “No, please smoke. You have every right to make yourself happy.” And I meant it with all my heart. He waved, smiling, as I walked out the door. Instead of exiting onto West End Avenue, I walked onto Grandma’s lawn.

The grass was cool on my feet, but the sun was warm on my face and shoulders, so I threw off my duvet. Pip was barking, and frisking; he beckoned me to follow. Seeing him made me so happy, it felt like my heart was filled with helium. I screamed, “Good boy! Good boy!” But it only came out as a wheeze. I chased after him, and he led me to a big double bed covered in soft pillows and pastel quilts. Mom was tucked in and she stretched her arms out to me. I climbed in and snuggled into a hug. Pip sprung aboard, turned around several times, and curled into a nose-to-tail circle. “I love you, my girl,” Mom said. Tears of joy flooded from my eyes. I could hardly make out Mom’s face through the water, but I could see that she was smiling.

As I wriggled around to get comfortable, the sheets started to feel scratchy. The sprawling bed was now a tight hospital cot and my spine scraped against the metal bedrail. Mom’s skin felt cold against my hand, so I smoothed back her hair. It came out in a clump. I couldn’t shake it off my hand. Her skin felt waxy. I pressed her shoulder to wake her up, but she wouldn’t rouse. I sobbed. Pip stood up, pinning my leg with his front paws, and barked. “Yip! Yip! Yip!”

“Miss…Miss. Miss!”

I opened my eyes to see my seatmate holding out a package of tissues and a concerned flight attendant holding out a steaming paper cup.

“There, there, love. Wipe your eyes.” The heater had been aimed in my direction and I was covered in an Aer Lingus blanket. “You were shivering, so I took the liberty of covering you up. Hope you don’t mind. The air hostess here has a cup of strong tea for you, with lots of sugar. Sure, it helps the shock. Drink up.” The flight attendant was looking at me with such warm concern, I immediately felt better. .

I dabbed at my eyes with a tissue. I sipped the hot, sweet tea. The fragrance and the taste seeped into me, the warmth soothed the back of my throat, and lit a path down through my chest to my gut. It was so good. I finished the cup in greedy gulps. It was like that cup of tea was what I’d been waiting for all my life.

“Better now?” asked the pretty girl in the crisp, white blouse and green scarf.

I nodded.

“You wouldn’t have an aul snack for the girl in the back there, wouldja?” my seatmate asked. “It’s only that dinner’s not on, and she’s under the weather.”

“Gotcha. Back in two shakes,” she said.

On what planet are people this nice? I wondered. Certainly not planet New York City. Back in the office, I’d dragged myself in with the flu for a mandatory staff meeting on the coldest day of the winter. Not only did Matty refuse to get me a cup of tea citing “very real SARS concerns,” Lizbeth tagged me to run down to Pick-A-Bagel to check on the breakfast order. And I’d grown up with Hank. From an early age I’d learned to rely on myself or do without. Apart from Maggie, I hadn’t experienced people falling all over themselves to help me out of sheer kindness in forever. Since Mom. Since Grandma.

“Brian Lynch,” the man said, holding his huge hand out for me to shake. I blushed, thinking of the mean things I’d said in my head about him. I had a wild moment thinking he could read my mind, but judging from his genuine smile, I could see that he expected the best from me.

“Shayla Sheridan,” I replied.

“Good to know you, Sheila. I have a daughter near your age, and two married ones, a bit older. Pretty girls, all, just like you. Now, don’t let me trouble you. Go and get your rest.”

“No,” I said. “I just had a rough morning. And,” I paused. He was looking at me with really kind eyes. I dropped my defenses and sighed a cleansing sigh, “I had a bad dream. I’m good now.” I rolled my head around on my shoulders. The tightness had subsided. I took a moment to check in with myself. Was I OK? I really was.

“Then tell me, Sheila, what brings you to Ireland?”

Maybe it was that loneliness that comes along with flying far above the oceans that spurred me on, but I broke my own rule about never talking to strangers on a plane, and told Brian Lynch the whole story. An excellent listener, he interjected with “Say it’s not so!” and “You’re joking!” and “Too right!” at all the appropriate intervals. In mid-story, Moira — that’s the flight attendant — brought me two scones, a tiny jar of jam, and a pot of clotted cream. “Put that inside you, it’ll do you a world of good” she said. “And here’s something to wash it down with.” More tea. I didn’t object.

I tried to imagine any young, hip girl in New York insisting that I eat a dense sugary bread roll spread with the creamiest, fattiest, sweetest ambrosia anyone’s ever tasted on this earth. For those of you who’ve never had clotted cream, I can only tell you that it must be mother’s milk from an angel. When I’d dug out all I could from the little foil cup using my plastic airline knife, I couldn’t stop myself from licking it clean.

“Good girl,” was Brian’s response.

My tray was cleared and I came to the end of my story. I took out the folder to show him Tom O’Grady’s photo.

“Ah, sure I know Tom O’Grady. He was in the papers not long ago, shaking hands with your president, and the prime minister, and all the rest. The missus and I stayed in Castle Stone on our silver wedding anniversary, back before they refurbished the place. Lovely then, of course, with the horses trotting the paths, and the manicured gardens, and the old chapel for mass, but I’ve heard it’s splendid now.”

“Care for some dinner?” Moira interrupted. “Would you like the pasta, the chicken, or the beef? Pasta, chicken or beef?” The cart had made it down to our row. Brian took the beef, so I figured, “when in Rome.” We arranged our trays and tore the tops and wrappers off of all our little packages. The second the smell of the gravy hit my nose, I was ravenous. It was like the scones never happened. I was thrilled to see chunks of carrot and potato nestled in with the cubes of roast.

“Care for something to drink? Sparkling water, beer, wine, a cocktail?”

“Orange juice for me, please,” Brian said. “Car’s parked at the airport. I don’t live far, only on the north side of Dublin, but I never risk it.”

I almost ordered a vodka and soda with lemon, just out of habit, but I really didn’t want a drink. I liked chatting with Brian, and I was feeling sharp. I felt better than I had in weeks. “Orange juice for me, too, please.”

“Full of vitamin C,” Brian declared. “Won’t do you a bit of harm.” I liked the way he said ‘vit-amin,’ rhyming ‘vit’ with ‘bit’. We ate our meals companionably.

“I understand your man Tom gave up the high life in London to go home and help out the old Lord.”

“He’s not my man!” I corrected, shocked. “I’ve never even met him.”

“Turn of phrase,” Brian explained. “Anthony Stone, Earl of Wexford’s the name. I read something in one of my girls’ tabloids about the place falling to ruin, the family not being able to keep up with the taxes or what have you. You see that kind of thing more and more these days. The titled losing vast tracts of land that’s been with them for centuries.”

“So what does that have to do with Tom? Tom O’Grady, I mean.”

“That part I can’t tell you. The magazine was one of them girly jobs. Only paper I had with me on the train one day, so I read it cover to cover. It talked more about him splitting with that girl he had the television show with. Something about her demanding a yellow diamond for an engagement ring, and him leaving London heartbroken, barely able to lift his head. Said he took to the drink. To tell the truth, I’m embarrassed to know all this. Those papers are pure gossip and lies, all. I shouldn’t be repeating what they say.”

I finished every scrap of my dinner, including the little Bakewell tart in a cup, topped with custard. Brian and I chatted comfortably while the meal was cleared. We took turns excusing ourselves to go to the lavatory, and stretched our legs by standing in the galley with Moira for a while. He showed me pictures of his wife and daughters and I told him what it was like to grow up with a famous father. “But don’t tell anyone, please,” I entreated.

“Your secret’s safe with me, pet.” When I thought about it, it kind of was. Brian though my name was Sheila. He hunkered down in his seat, and in that way old men have, dropped off to sleep almost immediately, snoring softly. This time I didn’t mind his arm on my armrest.

Careful not to awaken him, I took out my journal and cracked the stiff spine open to the first creamy blank page.

Dear Mags, I watched my hand write. Strange. I’d kept journals over the years, but I’d never written “to” anyone. I’d never even used the salutation “Dear Diary.” Oh well, I was writing in ink, so I decided to go with it. “I owe you an apology. I’ve been thinking vile thoughts about you all day, and I’m so sorry. All during the ride to the airport, I convinced myself that you’d cooked up this scheme to get rid of me. In my head, you’d jettison me to another country, go into HPC and laugh about me over cocktails at my desk with Matty, and move in a new roommate who is more fun and who actually has a job, like maybe Carly the Intern. I’m so bad! If you hated me, would you have stayed up all night straightening my hair so I could look like a modern, urban writer? All you did was try to dig me out of a hole, lend me money, and throw in the most perfect gift I’ve ever received in to boot. On second thought, you really are trying to show me up, aren’t you? Kidding! Thanks for wishing me sex, too, though that prospect is highly unlikely. If what I hear about Ireland’s climate is true, even Colin Farrell would have to cut me out of my long underwear using scissors! Anyway, my parts must be frozen from lack of use. Whatevs! Totally unimportant because I’m going to be in and out of there like a cat burglar. I plan to find O’Grady, get him to tell me a few colorful stories about leprechauns or shillelaghs or potato famines, or whatever, and get this book written. I will not be long in the land of flat caps and frizzy hair. Boom! Brenda will kvetch and kvell, I’ll be her hero, and there will still be plenty of time to call Ray Diablo on his personal number before he hires another writer. Uh oh! They’re calling for seatbacks and tray tables. I’ll call T O’G (how do they do initials with apostrophes??!) in the morning from your aunt’s house. Today’s the 20th and you have me coming home on the 24th. I know your aunt offered to keep me the whole time, but I think after I nail this, I might treat myself to a hostel in Dublin and do a little sightseeing. I’d tell you to wish me luck, but you already have. Love, Shay.”

I patted myself on the back for not having checked luggage. In reality, I had Maggie to thank for that. She’d edited a book about packing and organization, and she’d internalized all the flight attendant’s tips. Besides, I’d only be here a few days. She brutally cut out all but the essentials, but tucked every manner of jewel and accessory one could imagine into the toes of shoes, the inner circle of rolled up belts, and between layers of flat, folded clothing.

When Brian and I parted at customs, I felt sadder than I expected to.

“You look after yourself, Sheila,” he said. “I don’t like the thought of you being on your own. If you need anything, anything at all, you ring me.” He gave me his card. “Brian Lynch, GlobeCo, Director of Sales and Distribution, Ireland-UK-US.”

“Anything at all, hear? I couldn’t bear the thought of one of my own daughters wanting for anything in a strange country. I’m as near as the telephone.”

I gave him a hug, not the sort of thing I usually do, but I really didn’t want to let him go. His kindness had shone a spotlight on my loneliness. He patted my back in a fatherly way.

“Thank you,” was all I could manage. I smiled and walked away quickly. I didn’t like goodbyes in general and this one hurt more than it should. I waved without turning around, and heard him call, “Keep outta trouble, Sheila!”

As I stood in line, waiting to go through customs, I realized I’d left my winter coat in the overhead compartment. Shit. Should I try to reboard? There was nothing in the pocket except my gloves; I’d either get it back or I wouldn’t.

With only my carry on, and my small rolling suitcase I felt small and underprepared. The longer I stood waiting, the more dread I felt. On the plane, where I was being fed and watched over, everything seemed fine. Now dread poked me in the ribcage. Closer to the front, I could just make out the conversations of some other travelers, reminding me that the more you reveal at customs, the more questions they ask you. I’d keep it simple.

“Welcome to Ireland,” the kind-faced agent said. “Are you here for business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure,” I declared firmly, looking her straight in the eye.

Chapter Seven

Need teaches a plan.

As I exited the building and breathed in my first fresh air in nearly a day, I was surprised at how warm it was. As promised, Maggie’s cousin Des met me right on time outside the terminal. I must have looked lost, because he spotted me right away, and jumped out of the car.

“Shayla?” I nodded. He swooped in and loaded my suitcase into the back. “Hiya! I’m Des.” He was tall and had a sexy, sporty look to him. “Ready for an almost two-hour trip? Lovely night for it.” It was a lovely night. Ireland was downright balmy compared with New York. The air was moist and fresh.

Two hours. Now I’d owe him big-time. Running people from midtown to LaGuardia was a pain, but this was above and beyond. He didn’t even know me.

“I didn’t realize it was so far. I should have taken a bus or something,” I said, opening the car door and sliding in. “You have to let me pay you,” I offered, my stomach squeezing because I had no idea what a fair price might be. Probably more than I had.

“Not at all,” he brushed off my concern.

“Well, I want to give you something.”

“It all works out in the end, doesn’t it?” He stood looking at me. “Are you driving?”

Startled, I looked around and saw that I was sitting in front of the steering wheel. “Oh!” I scrambled out, and got in the other side. I’d travelled to Italy, Spain, Mexico, and The Netherlands, but I had found traveling to London by far the hardest transition. In the other, very foreign, places, I expected up to be down, and black to be white. In England, however, everyone spoke English, and we shared a lot of common culture — the United States having been a colony of theirs and all — so I got a false sense of security. Then, I’d get in a phone booth and be all thumbs or I’d have to take a freezing shower because I couldn’t figure out the buttons and knobs. It unsettled me. I suspected I’d feel similarly off-balance in Ireland.

“Buckle up,” he commanded. “Safety first. I drive a hotel limo, that’s why I work nights. I could do this drive in my sleep. It’s not often I have such a pretty passenger, though.”

I remembered Maggie’s warnings about her cousin being a ladies’ man, but he didn’t seem so bad to me. As he chattered on about his job, and how he liked to play football (the kind where you use your feet, I was schooled), I stole a sideways glance at him. Red hair, high cheekbones, full lips. He reminded me a bit of the ginger one from the Harry Potter films, all grown up. Not bad at all. My mind wandered to what he’d look like with his shirt off. And maybe his jeans. He looked to be the long and lean type, with a torso like a runner. And working down from there…Wow! I hadn’t had those thoughts in a while. Maybe it was the saltiness in the air, blowing in from the sea.

Shut it down, I told myself. His mother graciously offered you a bed to sleep in, she didn’t offer to fill it. There was no doubt that he was a piece of eye-candy, but one-night stands weren’t me, typically. I wasn’t above them, far from it. It’s just that it had been so long since I’d been with a man, you could call me a reborn virgin. There was a part of me that wanted my next time to be special. Or at least a great story.

“Would you mind if I just closed my eyes?” I asked. If I took a little nap, there’d be nothing to worry about. No point stirring the pot, I wouldn’t even be here long enough to start trouble.

“Not at all,” he replied amiably. “You must be knackered from the journey.”

I closed my eyes, and before I knew it, the car pulled into a short, paved drive alongside a neat little modern suburban house. Maggie’s Auntie Fiona immediately appeared at the front door. She must have been listening for the car.

“Get her bags inside, Des, and show her where to wash her hands. I’ve a smoked cod pie warm in the oven for your tea.”

“You didn’t have to cook for me,” I protested. I realized, too late, that I hadn’t packed a hostess gift. Maggie had shoved me out of the country with practically only the clothes on my back. I was utterly unprepared.

“Nonsense! It’s not a bit of trouble. Come through, Shayla, you’re very welcome.”

I could smell the sea. We had to be close. The high-pitched, plaintive, womanly cries of the gulls confirmed it. The salt air and the light chill snapped me awake, and my appetite along with me. I was ravenous. I’d never had smoked cod pie, but I was willing to give it a try.

With clean hands and brushed hair, I stood by the table. Normally, I would have touched up my makeup and changed into something unrumpled, but it didn’t seem called for. “There she is! Fresh as a daisy,” Des waved me toward a chair next to him at a tidy little kitchen table. “Doesn’t she look gorgeous, Mam?”

“Sure Des is a keen one for the ladies, Shayla,” Auntie Fiona (as she instructed me to call her) said, pulling a box of tea down from the pantry. “’Course she’s gorgeous, but don’t embarrass the poor girl. She’s only just arrived, she can do without your charms, I’d say. Go on, darlin’, sit down and make yourself comfortable.”

“Seat’s open here,” Des said. He checked to see that his mother’s back was turned and patted his lap. I sat on the chair next to him, surprised to feel a smile creeping onto my lips. I didn’t dare look him in the face. I could feel him smiling at me. That made me smile harder.

“Tuck in,” Maggie’s aunt said setting a plate bearing a giant slab of savory pie in front of me, then scooped a steaming, crispy pile of thick-cut French fries alongside it.

“I never have pie without chips,” she said.

From that moment on, I hoped I never would, either. The potatoes were golden-brown and crispy on the outside, and steaming and fluffy on the inside. Des pushed a bottle of malt vinegar toward me. Why not? I thought. The combination of the saltiness and the tang made my taste buds sing. I took my first tentative bite of the pie. I’d had some sketchy smoked mackerel in the past, and the fishy, oily memory was lodged in my brain. This pie was the farthest thing from it. The flaky chunks of white fish had just enough smokiness to make it interesting, but the wholesome flavor of the ocean was the star taste. The truth is, I’ll eat about anything you put in a flaky piecrust and surround with creamy white sauce, onions, and peas, but the fish was a standout.

Maggie’s aunt excused herself to go hang the laundry. On a clothesline? I wondered. I made a mental note to take a look at that later. Even Grandma had used a giant tumble dryer, and in Manhattan the closest thing we had to clotheslines were the metal fire escapes on tenement buildings.

Des and I chatted about this and that, but the real conversation took place beneath our words. A glance from beneath the lashes here, a lick of the lips there. This was more like a date than my date with Jordan in 54 Below had been. I wondered if my chances of scoring would be higher. Realizing this line of thinking was reckless, I willed myself to sit up straight and to stop speaking from below my waist.

Des told me about ten times that he’d have to eat quickly and rush off. He said this between charged stares and brushed of his knee against my thigh. I encouraged him to go, pointing out the time. The longer he stayed, the more I wanted him to. I couldn’t believe myself. I usually went for the nerdy intellectuals, the ones whose flaws you had to overlook to get to the good stuff. The ones you had to fix and coax. No subtlety slowed down the slam of my attraction to Des. Sex sat right on the surface of our every interaction.

“I wish I hadn’t promised the fellas I’d meet up, so,” Des told me over his second cup of tea. “I’d rather pass the night here.” Late-shift work turned his sleep schedule upside-down, he explained, and he’d made a plan ages ago to meet his mates in an after-hours club tonight. He’d never live it down if he bagged on them. It was just as well because I didn’t trust myself. I’d think of him lying awake down the hall while I was trying to sleep.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d just had sex for sex’s sake. Probably the break-up sex with my last boyfriend Noah. By the time we broke up, I hated him so much that he was like a stranger. It had been like role-playing; me taking all of my anger and aggression on him in bed. Too bad the only hot sex happened the last time I ever saw him. And before that, it was Josh. Sweet, reliable Josh. Our sex together had all the heat of a firm handshake. I’m not sure which of us liked it less, but neither of us ever mentioned the embarrassing fact that zero sex was had the last three months of our time together.

I thought of Maggie constantly telling me that I just needed to get laid. For the first time, it dawned on me that she was right. And I wasn’t even drunk! Out of my comfort zone, away from my New York structure, I was seeing everything in a new light. Even a stranger like Jordan told me I needed to break my own rules.

I stole a sneaky look at Des’s long, jean-clad thighs. His legs splayed open in a deep triangle as he reclined on his kitchen chair, luring my eye up to the bulge under his zipper. Bad girl, Shayla. Even though Maggie told me to get laid, she’d strictly forbidden doing it with her cousin because of his reputation. The thought made it even hotter.

Des finally peeled himself away from the table. From the door to the kitchen, he said, “I’m going for a bath.” I could swear the next words he whispered were, “Come along if you’re dirty” but it was hard to hear with Auntie Fiona bellowing “On the Rocky Road to Dublin”, as she carried her wicker basket through the hall.

Sitting down with her own cup of tea, Fiona asked me about where I was born and where I grew up, and how I passed my time. I complimented her house and was told it was technically a bungalow and less than a kilometer from the water. It had been passed down, she explained, and they were lucky to have it. Property prices had skyrocketed in recent years, she explained. She asked about my family, and did I follow sports or politics or pop stars. Not once did she ask me where I went to university, or what I did for a living. When I mentioned I was a writer she said that was grand, and asked if I didn’t come to interview that young chef from Castle Stone and left it at that.

Bringing a fresh pot to the table, Auntie Fiona asked, “Is the tea all right with ya, or would you care for something stronger?”

The scalding hot, milky tea was exactly what the doctor ordered. And something stronger might impair my judgment in the Des department. No, tea aired with the simple, filling pie and potatoes was fine. It left me with the effect of being wrapped in a soft quilt. “The tea is good. Everything is good.” With Des out of the picture, I relaxed in the unhurried atmosphere. Everything was nice and simple. Until my brain shot out signal flares. Tom O’Grady. I remembered why I was here in the first place. I had to get a win. If I didn’t, what else did I have?

“How far away is Castle Stone from here? Does the train or bus go there directly? Do you have wifi? Would you mind if I jumped on it?”

“Easy now. Tomorrow’s another day. Have yourself a bath, why don’t you?”

Was Des gone? I wondered. A flash of my lowering my naked self onto his body in the tub sizzled through my brain.

“Help yourself to anything you fancy in there,” she said.

Oh dear God.

“We’ve all sorts of lotions and potions,” she continued. I let out my breath. “Now that our eldest has moved out, we let that room here and there during the high season. Make yourself at home. Sure, you’ve flown over the Atlantic, for heaven’s sake! You deserve a long lie-down.”

I hesitated.

“Work’ll keep,” she insisted.

I pushed past my normal tendencies and took her advice. I gathered my pajamas and toothbrush from my case. The house sat quiet. Des must have left. I felt a twinge of regret in my nether parts, but told myself that it was for the best. One less thing to think about.

Upstairs in the bathroom I filled the tub with steaming water and threw in a liberal handful of seaweed bath salts. I lay all the way back, submerging my head so that only my mouth and nose protruded from the water. It sounded the way a large conch shell does when you press your ear to its side. We used to call it, “listening to the ocean.” It sounded like a woman’s voice, and as if I just listened that little bit harder, I might be able to make out what she was saying. The tone was beckoning, I just couldn’t make out the message. I lay there trying until the water went cold, then pulled myself back out into the world. Back in my room, I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

I awakened at 5:30 a.m. and the house was still. There was no danger of Des getting up soon, and surely Auntie Fiona slept past dawn. I padded quietly into the kitchen and looked for a coffee maker. No luck. I couldn’t remember a day since I was fifteen that I hadn’t started my morning with a cup of coffee. There was, however, an electric tea kettle. I’d always considered these a waste of space. Funny how everyone in Ireland has one and no one in America does. Who couldn’t heat water on the stove? Why bother with a kettle? When the water boiled before I could even put a teabag in a mug, I had my answer. I went for the milk in the fridge, even though I never drank milk in tea at home. It was like I was on autopilot, being called by the song of the lost souls of the Irish people who’d always put milk in their tea. It felt weird, but I had to admit that the tiny pint-sized plastic jug, and the unapologetic way it called whole milk “full fat” charmed me.

Not only did I not start my day with my usual cup of coffee, I couldn’t check my phone or email because I wasn’t set up for that yet. It dawned on me that I had no idea what to do about phone service. If I just tried to use my phone, each call might cost a mint, and I couldn’t afford to throw money around. I’d left so fast and without a thought about practical matters. Worse yet, my brilliant brain couldn’t figure things out because it wasn’t my playing field. I was not the master of my universe. But then, had I ever been?

It wasn’t quite six o’clock and I had nothing to do. I was itching to call Tom O’Grady, but I didn’t know how to use the phone. I felt vulnerable; like if there was a disaster, I wouldn’t know the drill. “No, Shayla!” I told myself, nipping it in the bud. Go out and get some fresh air and this idea will seem better when the sun comes up. I crept up the stairs, still in my pajamas, and quietly brushed my teeth. I heard the front door open and some jingling keys being put on a hook. I heard Des clear his throat and I slipped through the bathroom door, intending to race back to my room before he saw me. Which would have been the best possible thing. Obviously. Instead, what happened was this: With Des’s high energy and long stride, he was up the staircase, and standing in front of me before I could think. His blue eyes lit up the dark like a couple of headlights and I was frozen. I couldn’t look away.

Before I could take a breath, his mouth was on mine, and my arms were wrapped around his neck, me standing on tippy-toe, gasping for air. His lips were firm and insistent. I tried to whisper “no,” but the thought of waking Auntie Fiona quieted my voice. I signaled with my body that we should stop, that it was too risky, we’d get caught. He met every bend of my neck and every jolt of my hips like a tango master. Every touch, every push and grind made me forget why I wanted to stop.

He tasted like fresh beer and spearmint gum; it was the taste of being wild with a boy at a club. I was only wearing a thin t-shirt and no bra. His hand kneaded my breast and I leaned into it. He picked me up at the waist, me straddling his long frame sloppily, and he dragged me into his room, the closest one to the bathroom.

“Oh,” he moaned, “Shayla, I am going to give it to you like you have never had it before.” Just like that. No discussion. No request for permission. My mind was sizzling and my body melted. No man had ever talked to me like that before. All my other lovers had gone out of their way to be chivalrous, real 21st-century men, determined to prove how sensitive they were. It was clear that Des planned to take what he wanted. His attitude electrified me and I was right behind him. I couldn’t stop now if I wanted to. I wasn’t leaving this tangle till my tension got relieved.

He lay me back on the bed and peeled my shirt up. He scraped the stubble of his beard up my belly and covered my nipple with his mouth, circling his tongue and humming with pleasure. It lit me on fire. Then, pulling his head up and panting into his mouth, I reached down to undo the snap on his jeans. I popped it open and tugged at the zipper, all the while wrapping my legs around his pelvis, trying to grind into his hardness.

He untangled my greedy fingers from his hair and pulled my shirt up over my head, only stopping our hungry kiss long enough to pull the collar past our mouths. With the skill of a magician, he used one of his hands and his knee to strip off my jogging pants and panties while keeping me drunk with kisses and teasing my aching breasts. I didn’t recognize myself, I was so out of control. When he shifted to wriggle his jeans past his slim hips, I actually pouted and humphed. A second was too long to wait for contact. I was long past having manners. What we had here was a matter of need, not want. Slowing down would be like trying to turn a cruise ship around.

The feeling of his hot skin pressed against me from my ankles to my cheek set off something primal. I grabbed the length of him with my whole hand and stroked it to the tip. Uncircumsized. The newness of it drove me wild.

“Now,” I demanded, forgetting to whisper.

“Oh, God, Shayla, yes, yes,” he chanted again and again as he ripped open a condom packet with his teeth and reached down to roll it on. I swung up on top of him, balancing myself by digging the heels of my hands into his pubic bone like it was the horn of a saddle. I loved that part of a man. Especially a tall, skinny one like Des.

I lowered myself down, taking him in all at once, not bothering to tease. By the way he used his fingers, I could tell Des had been around the block a time or two, and with women, not just girls. I slid up and down, taking full advantage of the fact that I’d claimed the top position, and ground into that bone, taking him deeper and deeper. “Oh dear fuck, Shayla,” he whispered. “That is delicious.”

At that point, I closed my eyes, and went into a kind of trance, nearly forgetting that Des was there. Up to this point in my life, I had never, never taken what I wanted so aggressively. I was Super Woman, capable of anything. From that point forward, it was all hands, and mouth, and pounding. I worked hard and got what I came for. I changed my movement to near stillness, and was rewarded by electric pulsing from where I was sitting.

“Shayla,” he moaned.

“Shh!” I warned him. “Ah-ah-ah-ah!” I cried out, forgetting utterly about keeping this secret from Auntie Fiona. I couldn’t have stayed quiet if I’d tried.

Oh. My. God. I felt so loose, so calm. I flopped over onto his chest, and listened to my own heartbeat for a few seconds. He didn’t say a thing. Like I said, he was good at this. Way better at it than I would have given him credit for. I rewarded him with a firm kiss on the mouth. He was still inside me, “Lie back,” I told him, “here comes yours.”

I left Des sleeping, washed up, and quietly pulled on some clothes. There was no hairdryer to be found, let alone a curling iron or a pair of straightening tongs. God, I hated dealing with all this hair. What happened to the days of wash-and-wear? Deep down, I knew Maggie was right about how a 20-something’s coiffure was supposed to look in the city, but I didn’t have the time nor the patience to maintain an amazing style that was meant to look effortless. I ran a comb through it, but it was not interested in being tamed. The clock said 7 a.m. I threw my wallet and new journal and pen into a tote. There were keys on the hooks by the door. I had to lock the door behind myself. I found the right one on the third try and set out walking in the pre-dawn glow, hoping that this was a safe neighborhood. I could smell salt water, so I tried to use my lizard brain to find the seafront. Auntie Fiona had said it was about a kilometer away. “About a mile,” I thought. Then I questioned myself. The half-assed attempts to teach us the metric system in school hadn’t really stuck. I walked blindly on, hoping I’d get where I wanted to go sooner or later.

I sat down on a flat rock and gazed out at the horizon. Breathtaking was the only fitting word for it. I pulled out my journal and wrote:

Dear Mags, It’s hard to believe I’m in Ireland sitting on a seawall, watching the sun rise. The blazing orange and pink of the sun is illuminating everything, but leaving the edges soft. I wish I could show it to you. Sunrises, like dreams and falling in love, mean so much to the person they’re happening to, and always pale in the description. There are plumes of smoke rising from the chimneys of the clean-lined houses, scenting the air. It doesn’t smell like the smoke from houses upstate. It’s earthier than woodsmoke, and mixed with the sea breeze, it calls to mind both dried blood and babies being born. It’s not unpleasant, though. The only word I can think of to describe it is organic.

I think the air here is giving me superpowers. With each breath I take, I feel like I’m connecting. To the rock I’m sitting on, to the calling birds, to the tall grasses waving in the breeze. It all looks so foreign and unfamiliar. The rugged landscape, the quirky rusted red and brown tug moving along next to the wooden fishing boats. I wonder if this actually is the prettiest view I’ve ever experienced, or if it’s simply the post-coital buzz talking. Oh, right. I suppose I have to tell you: I had sex with Des. I know, I know! It just happened. I’m glad, though. I wouldn’t have wanted to break my dry spell with someone real, if you know what I mean. I got it out of my system. There. Done. Weeeeeelll, maybe it’s not quite out of my system. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not in love with him or anything, but you know that expression, “A taste of honey’s worse than none at all?” I have to admit, it was pretty good for a desperate quickie. And look, I know Des didn’t go to college or write a book, or cure polio, but that’s OK. Am I a snob for saying he’s not husband material? On the other hand, maybe marriage could be pretty sweet if you got a dose of that every night. Whatever, he’s pretty cute and it was super-fun for what it was. I’d die of embarrassment if your aunt found out, but if I had the chance to do it again, I feel like I might. The truth is, I don’t feel like myself. But in a good way. Have you ever sat quietly, and said your name over and over, and asked yourself, who am I, really? What does it mean to be me? Well, you probably haven’t. You’re so much more grounded than I am. When I was a little girl, I felt ethereal and unformed, like I hadn’t landed in my body yet. I thought that when I grew up, it would click into place and I’d feel whole. I’m still waiting, I guess. But today, I don’t know…I feel more like I’m in here, you know? I think I’m getting a glimpse of what it would be like to land in…well…me

All right, the sun’s completely up now, and I see what looks to be a touristy coffee shop by the waterfront. I don’t even have any Irish currency yet. Cross your fingers that they take plastic, because I think a cappuccino is in order before I pick up the phone to call Tom O’Grady. I’ll let you know how it goes! Love, Shay.

Walking back to Auntie Fiona’s with my large takeaway latte, I unzipped my fleece a few inches so I could soak up the maximum amount of sun. After the early morning sex and the caffeine boost, the only thing that could make me feel better would be sealing the deal with Tom O’Grady. I walked up the drive and turned the key in the lock as quietly as I could. As I was fiddling with it, the door swung open and I stood face-to-face with a girl with shiny dark hair, pulled into a high ponytail. She had on a full face of evening makeup.

“Hiya,” she said. “Come through.”

I peered behind her to make sure I was in the right house. I saw the back of Auntie Fiona’s head at the kitchen table, where she was sipping tea. I combed back through the stories Maggie had told me. Her uncle had passed away at a young age, and I thought Fiona only had the two boys, Des, and Michael, who was married and out of the house.

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