Riverside Park

Howard’s children had been badly frightened and so he had not even hesitated about buying the house in Woodbury. At the time he qualified for a good mortgage rate and he wanted his family safe. The house, in turn, started a slew of new expenses and it was not long before Howard was taking a lot more money out of the agency than the agency receipts could support.

By last year Howard knew he had to do something so he had put out a feeler with Henry Hillings about the possibility one of his grandchildren might be interested in learning the business. The old man instantly got fired up about the idea because he had one grandson, he said, “Who’s just the ticket,” and it was not long before a lawyer called Howard to express Henry’s interest in buying his grandson into the agency as a partner. A partial cash-flow solution seemed to be near. But when it came time to show the agency books, Howard put it off because the agency at that moment was out over two hundred thousand dollars on a credit line with a bank that was failing. That’s when he had hustled to get the Gertrude Bristol deal going and got shot down.

Subsequent meetings with his accountant did not go well. If Howard wanted the agency books to look good, he was told, he had to pay off the credit line, lay off at least three employees, sublet one of the offices and make his employees pay at least thirty percent of their health care premiums. Also, if he didn’t want trouble with the IRS, he needed an extra hundred thousand to set things right. His finances, the accountant told him, were now officially a secret disaster.

Howard took out a second mortgage on the Woodbury property (bringing up the percentage he owed to one hundred and twenty-five percent), paid the IRS, paid off the agency credit lines and balanced the books. The accountant only shook his head, saying it was no good to put personal property at risk when the agency had been incorporated expressly to shield his family. Why did Howard do it?

Howard did it because Howard couldn’t stand the idea that Henry Hillings would think he had sold his distinguished literary agency to a loser. In Howard’s eyes it was a far better thing to be in a temporary personal financial bind than for even a hint of tarnish to appear on the Hillings & Stewart name.

He had told Amanda none of this because this was the one area—money—he had sworn to her she would never have to worry about on his end. He had learned his lesson with his first wife; Howard would make his own money. Amanda owned the Riverside Drive apartment free and clear and she also had a generous trust fund, the revenue from which they could rely on. Amanda didn’t care how much money Howard made; she only cared that Howard did not drift into the financially carefree attitude he had developed in his first marriage. That was why he had been so excited about buying the Woodbury property. He was buying a beautiful home for his family; it was the money he had earned that would keep his family safe.

Amanda’s reaction to the house had been everything Howard had hoped for. Her jaw dropped in disbelief and then she had burst into tears, telling him she couldn’t believe it, how much he had achieved in such a short period of time, and how she and Emily and Teddy (for Grace had not yet even been imagined) were the luckiest people on the face of the earth.

“Howard,” his mother said.

Howard blinked and then looked across the living room. His mother was driving him crazy tonight, talking about what a wonderful husband and provider Howard’s father had been—even if he hadn’t gone to college like Howard and hadn’t had fancy friends. She was just declaring there was no shame in a man working with his hands when the phone rang.

“I’m proud of Dad, too, Mom,” Howard said, jumping up to answer the phone.

“I’m over here at Captain Cook’s if you still feel like having that beer,” the insurance salesman aspiring to be a novelist told Howard.

“I’m glad you called,” Howard said, trying to put on an act of grave concern for his mother’s benefit. This would be his only chance to get out of here for a while. “I got an e-mail this morning from Australia I’d like to discuss with you. So don’t move, I’ll be there shortly. I’m sorry, Mom,” Howard said, hanging up the phone, “but I’m afraid I have to go out.”

When Howard saw Celia behind the bar at Captain Cook’s he thought, How weird is that? Amanda had just asked him about Celia today and now here he was walking in like the regular he wasn’t.

“How are you?” Howard greeted the insurance salesman who was sitting at the bar, shaking his hand and giving him a pat on the shoulder.

“Nervous as hell,” the insurance salesman said, tossing back what smelled like whiskey.

Celia came over to their side of the bar. “He’s worried he’s going to have to sell insurance for the rest of his life,” she told Howard.

“Hi, Celia.”

“Hi.”

“And he’s scared you’re going to give up on him,” a strange woman with a lot of makeup said from the corner of the bar.

“He’s been hitting it pretty hard,” another customer explained.

“A Beck’s, please, Celia, thank you,” Howard said, sliding onto a stool. He looked at the writer. “I don’t know about your career in insurance, but I did get an offer from an Australian publisher for UK rights on your novel. It’s a modest offer, but you’ll be published in Australia, England, Ireland—”

The writer threw himself at Howard to hug him. The customers at this end of the bar cheered. Howard laughed, slapping the writer’s back, savoring the moment. This was the joy of his job. (Telling a writer that every publisher in America had rejected their manuscript was the worst.)

Celia placed a frosted mug and a bottle of Beck’s in front of Howard. “Nicely done.”

She was a pretty girl. It was funny, he didn’t remember her as such. While the writer grilled him for details, Howard watched Celia and began to realize why she might have given Amanda pause for thought. She was one of those seriously AWOL Fairfield County girls, a fascinating Waspy creature who could exude a kind of smoldering sexuality.Maybe it was the way her jeans fit her. She had a great ass.

When the writer left to use the bathroom Celia put a dish of pretzels down in front of Howard. “Thank God you had good news. He’s been depressed for as long as I’ve been serving him.”

Her eyes were nice.Very dark. Like her hair. “Which is how long?”

“Three years,” she said, leaving to get another patron a drink.

When she came back Howard told her, “There is a school of thought that says it’s good to keep writers depressed because then they stay home and write.”

She laughed. It made her much more attractive. She had a great smile.

“I hear you ran into my wife early this morning.”

Her eyebrows went up. “I did?”

“In the lobby. Around three this morning?”

Celia still looked uncertain and held up a finger, signaling that Howard was to hold that thought while she got another customer a drink.

Howard saw the writer standing just outside the bar area, holding a cell phone to one ear and covering his other with a hand. He guessed he was calling his wife with the good news.

“I got sort of hammered here after work last night,” Celia admitted on her return. “I think I remember seeing her. With the baby. Your wife has really beautiful hair, right?”

“Yes, she does.”

“And absolutely huge tits,” Celia added.

Howard did a double take.

Celia covered her mouth, aghast. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. My roommate and I watch this show on BBC America, What Not to Wear, and this lady Trinny’s always saying stuff like that so we’ve been saying it to each other. I didn’t mean to be rude—”

“Miss?” a customer called.

“I meant it as a compliment,” she said, moving away. “I mean, look.” She gestured to her own breasts and then made a gesture of futility.

No, there wasn’t much there, Howard had to agree. But Celia did have terrific legs and that great swing to her ass.

“My wife thinks I’m lying about the Australian publisher,” the writer announced upon his return. “She thinks I’m saying it so I can stay out and drink and not have to deal with her parents. The busboy says he knows you, by the way. That one, over there. Joey or something.”

Howard smiled. “Hey! Jason!”

The teenager untangled himself from a tray of dirty dishes and came over, smiling and wiping his hands on his apron before shaking Howard’s hand. “Hey, Mr. Stewart.”

“Long time no see,” Howard joked. Jason was a great kid, but really shy. Of course, with a mother like Rosanne, Howard imagined it would be hard to get a word in edgewise. “Was that turkey gross or what?”

“It wasn’t that bad,” the boy said nicely. “At least it didn’t have any buckshot in it this year.”

They laughed.

“My novel’s getting published,” the writer told Jason.

“Congratulations. Is Mr. Stewart your agent?”

“Best agent in the world,” the writer declared, but Jason’s eyes had moved to something behind them. Howard turned to see what he was looking at. Celia. Jason was looking at Celia. When Howard turned back around he could see a rash of scarlet spreading across Jason’s neck.

Jason had a crush on her.

“If you want, Jason,” he heard Celia say, “you can have a second break.”

Jason’s eyes lit up. “Yeah. Yeah! That’d be great,” he stammered.

“Then you better go and take it before she changes her mind,” Howard said.

“Yeah. I guess.” Jason stuck his hand out. “Thanks again for dinner, Mr. Stewart.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Congratulations again on your book,” Jason said politely as he backed away.

They turned back around on their stools to lean on the bar. “Seems like a good kid,” the writer said.

“He is. I think he’s going to do very well.” For some reason this reminded him of the financial mess he was in and it made him feel sick inside. “I think I need a real drink,” Howard announced. “What are you drinking?”

“Irish Mist.”

“Sounds good to me.” He looked around. “Where’s Celia?”

The bartender servicing the other end of the bar came down to Howard. “Can I get you fellas something?”

“Where’s Celia?”

“On break. What can I get you?”

Howard ordered two Irish Mists. The writer drank his pretty fast while Howard nursed his. Celia reappeared behind the bar about ten minutes later.

“You’re a little young for hot flashes,” the writer told her when Celia came over to see how they were doing. He had started slurring his words.

Celia blew the hair off her face. She did look hot. “Say that again?”

The writer repeated it.

“I think you’ve hit your limit,” Celia said, smoothly swiping his empty glass from the bar. “So what can I get you? On me. Water, soda or coffee?” She put a dish of pretzels in front of him.

“Fuck that, I wanna real drink,” he said, swatting the dish of pretzels off the bar. The pretzels went flying and the saucer clattered down on the floor behind the bar.

Celia looked at Howard. “Tell him I won’t hold it against him tomorrow.” And then she walked down to the other end of the bar.

“Fuck her,” the writer growled, trying to get off the bar stool. Howard held his arm to steady him and the writer threw his hand off.

“Okay, okay,” Howard said, backing off.

Without another word the writer staggered out of the bar.

“He left his coat,” the woman with lots of makeup on said.

Celia came to wipe down the bar again and Howard apologized. He thought it had been that last drink that had done it. Celia agreed that had she been out here she probably would not have poured him that last drink. She said the writer got a certain look when he was on the verge of a blackout. “The cold will wake him up, though,” she said with a smile. “How about a turkey sandwich? They’re really good.”

“Sounds good to me.” Howard switched back to beer and ate his sandwich. It was good. The football game on television got pretty good, too, and he stayed on, having another beer, doing his best to stay in the moment and not think about his problems.

At eleven Celia said she was going off her shift so Howard closed out his bill and asked if she wanted to share a cab home. She said she would prefer to walk. He said that sounded like a good idea.

It was freezing out but Celia seemed unaffected by it. She asked him a few questions about what a literary agent did, asked where he had gone to school (Duke) and who some of his writers were. (The only author of his she had heard of was Gertrude Bristol.) He asked her what kind of books she liked to read and she said Anthony Trollope.

“Which ones?”

She looked at him. “All of them. He makes me laugh and I like that time period. A lot of cool stuff was made back then. You know, books, paintings, furniture.”

“Good evening, Miss Cavanaugh, Mr. Stewart,” the night concierge of their building said. They said hello, and while Howard pressed the button for the elevator, Celia took her bandana off and shook out her hair. When they got in Howard pushed 11 and by the time Celia asked him to push 6 they were already past it.

“Sorry about that,” he said, starting to get that sinking feeling again. He dreaded the ride out to the airport with his mother and dreaded going out to Woodbury to hang out with his in-laws in a house that might well get repossessed if he didn’t think of something. He had to tell Amanda. And soon.

“It’s okay,” Celia said, leaning back against the wall and covering a yawn with her hand.

He sniffed the air, unable to identify the smell. “Is that your perfume?”

She laughed. “Perfume? It’s rose-scented Glade. We use it in the restaurant office.”

“Believe it or not,” he heard himself saying, “it almost smells good on you.”

A mysterious smile was playing on Celia’s mouth and Howard felt a small shot of fear. He was afraid he was about to try to kiss Celia. She turned her head slightly toward him, as if she were reading his mind.

The elevator eased to a stop and he just stood there, looking at her.

“Your floor,” Celia said, stepping forward to punch her floor into the directory as the doors opened.

Still, he stood there. They were only about ten inches apart. He knew she would let him kiss her. The doors started to close and Howard slammed them back, then took her in his arms to kiss her. When he tried to open her mouth the elevator doors tried to close again and knocked his mouth off hers. This time he let the doors close and Celia stepped back against the wall, putting her arms back to rest on the railing, as if to invite his eyes to run over her body while the elevator descended. He stepped forward to touch her but she twisted away. “I’m sorry, Howard, but I don’t do married men. I don’t think it’s right.”

It was as if she had slapped him across the face. At once he was ashamed and embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Celia, I’m sorry,” he said quietly, turning away from her. “I guess I shouldn’t have had that last drink, either.”

The elevator arrived at her floor and she stepped out. “Howard,” she said, waiting for him to look at her. “Forget about it. Because I already have.” And then the elevator doors closed. He slapped 11 and took off his glasses to rub his eyes. What the hell am I doing?

8

Cassy’s Monday Morning

“HOW GOOD OF you to telephone,” Mrs. Emma Goldblum said to Cassy.

“I would have called before, Emma, but I only just got back in town and received your message.” Cassy was speaking more or less in the direction of the speakerphone in her dressing room. She was slipping on a skirt, running late for the office. “How was your Thanksgiving?”

“It was very nice. We went to the Stewarts’, as you know. Amanda cooked a very nice dinner. Her parents were visiting. And Howard’s mother. Rosanne made a pumpkin pie and a mince pie. And you?”

Cassy had zipped up the skirt and was pulling down a pair of matching blue low heels from the organized shelves. “We had a full house.”

“Yes, I know, you’ll remember Henry brought over sweet William for me to see last week.”

“Did you say sweet, Emma?” Cassy said, searching through her vanity for earrings, necklace and a bracelet. She also hastily put on her wedding rings. “I love my grandson dearly, Emma, but please.” The sound of Mrs. Goldblum’s chuckle made Cassy smile as she scanned the upper rack for her new fitted blazer. Why she had waited so many years to get a personal shopper was beyond her. All she had to do was say, “I’d like a blazer that goes with this skirt,” and voilà, in a few days it appeared. (She knew why. Because they cost a fortune and she had not always had a fortune.)

“That is why animal crackers were invented, dear,” Mrs. Goldblum said. “It makes all children sweet for at least five minutes.”

Cassy laughed.

Scarf. She supposed she should wear a scarf. No, she hesitated, looking in the mirror, why start hiding her neck now with so many years to go? The sun did its work and that’s all there was to it.

Cassy put on a scarf.

The outfit looked good, she thought, turning to view it in the three mirrors. She had always liked her clothes to be as perfectly in place as possible. It had annoyed her no end when a therapist once said that it was common for children of alcoholics to grow up that way, obsessed with external order in an attempt to contain the emotional chaos they felt inside.

“I know how terribly busy you are, Cassy,”Emma Goldblum was saying, “but I’m calling to ask your help. Normally Sam Wyatt keeps an eye on my affairs but at present he is occupied with other matters so I am turning to you.”

This got her attention. Cassy picked up the phone. “What may I do?” She walked into the master bedroom to look out the largest window. It was cloudy outside, making the Hudson look gray. It was windy, too, creating white caps on the water. Directly below in Riverside Park the flag at the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument was flailing wildly.

“I have some legal matters to attend to and I wondered if you would be so kind as to accompany me to my lawyer’s office. It is downtown. I know it’s a great deal to ask, but I need someone I can rely on and I prefer not to have Rosanne with me because I don’t want to upset her. And she will be, that’s just the way she is when it comes to—” she hesitated “—wills and such.”

Emma meant death. Cassy imagined it was hard enough for Emma to face her mortality without Rosanne looking on.

“Did you have a specific day and time in mind?”

“I waited until I had spoken to you before making an appointment.”

“I should be in town this week,” Cassy said, “but let me get my calendar in front of me at the office and then I’ll call you back. In, say, an hour?”

“I’m very grateful to you, dear.” Pause. “I fear time is slipping away.”

“Don’t I know it,” Cassy murmured. “Listen, Emma, is there something going on at the Wyatts’? You said ‘concerned with other matters’ in a rather ominous tone.”

“I’m afraid nothing that I am at liberty to discuss.”

After Cassy got off with Emma she went to the kitchen and flipped open the address book to check a number and make a call. “Good morning. Is Sam there, please? It’s Cassy Cochran calling.”

After a few moments Sam Wyatt came on the line. “Hey, girl.”

“Girl, I wish.” She laughed, looking at her watch. She was late.

Sam had been a good friend to her. Their relationship had been a baptism by fire in the final stages of her ex-husband’s drinking. Cassy didn’t know what would have happened had Sam not been there to help her through it. “I’m good, Sam, but I just got a call from Emma Goldblum. She asked me if I would take her to her lawyer’s office, which I said I would.”

“I would have taken her if she asked.”

“She seems to think you have a lot on your plate right now and the way she said it—well, it made me wonder if everything was okay.”

Silence.

“Sam?” She imagined he was reading something on his desk and was distracted.

“So Rosanne goes home and tells Emma,” Sam said, “and then Emma calls you—is that how this works? I admire her restraint, it’s been three whole days.”

Cassy hesitated. She’d known Sam for years and was well acquainted with the fact that he could be—well, scratchy on occasion. Irritable. She wasn’t offended particularly; that’s just the way he was when stressed out. “Sam, no one has told me anything. And if everything’s fine then that’s great, I’ll just hang up and get to the office.”

“Now there’s a plan,” he told her.

Well, that was an exercise in futility, Cassy thought, hanging up and going back to the bedroom to retrieve her bag. She was using up so much energy living two lives to begin with she didn’t need to nose into the affairs of her neighbors to expend any more.

“Mrs. Darenbrook?” she heard the housekeeper call.

“Good morning.”

“Ah, there you are,” the housekeeper said from the doorway. “You’re usually gone by now.”

Nothing like feeling unwelcome in your own home. Cassy knew the housekeeper was anxious for her to leave so she could turn all the TVs in the house on to begin her daily regime. Oh, for the days of Rosanne! When someone arrived who was interested in the house and the family in it!

Cassy’s plan to slip unobtrusively into the DBS News conference room had clearly failed; whatever discussion had been taking place stopped dead the moment she came through the door. She took the only seat left at the long conference table, which was at the other end from where their SeniorVice President and Executive Producer of DBS News, Will Rafferty, was presiding. She felt self-conscious with all of these eyes on her because they belonged to younger people, many of whom made their careers in front of the camera, which is to say they were trained to view their appearance critically and tended to do the same with everyone else.

Alexandra Waring was there, of course, the symbolic head of the news division and around whom it had largely been built. Alexandra recently celebrated her four-thousandth on-air hour for DBS News and, at forty-one, was, Cassy thought, even better looking than when they had launched the network. Maturity suited her. Alexandra had exquisite blue-gray eyes (which all five children of Congressman Waring, the longtime Kansas politician, had), high cheekbones, a full mouth and nearly black hair that had only recently begun to show an occasional gray hair. She also had a brilliant smile that was said to be able to generate ratings by itself.

Alexandra was fiercely bright and well-liked at the network, if not somewhat adored. She was demanding but fair and anyone who was trying their best usually found favor with her. A few people had come and gone very quickly at DBS News because it became quickly evident who fit in and who did not. If someone understood what Alexandra and Will were trying to do he or she would do fine; if he or she disagreed with their direction and had no constructive alternative to offer, he or she soon wanted out. (The chill factor could be unbearable.)

Many of their key players in the news group had been with DBS since the beginning, when there had only been DBS News America Tonight with Alexandra Waring, Monday through Friday, for one hour at nine.

Sitting next to Alexandra was half of the anchor team for DBS’s new 6:00–7:00 a.m. national news hour, Emmett Phelps. He was formerly a professor of law at USC and looked every inch the part, only younger. He was in his middle forties, had a nice head of hair, insisted on wearing horn-rimmed glasses and, regardless of the climate or season, a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows. Emmett was well-spoken and deliberate in his speech; he had the gift of being able to concisely summarize the complicated details of news stories that broadcast news could not stop to explain.

Across the table from Emmett was his more outgoing and outspoken coanchor, Sally Harrington, whose edge it was part of Emmett’s job to smooth while Sally’s was to make Emmett have one. She was almost thirty-five and possessed elocution no voice coach could ever teach. Sally was very pretty, with blue eyes and light brown hair streaked with blond. She had formerly served as a special producer for Alexandra, but also belonged to the Writers’ Guild because she could write almost as well as (some said better than) her boss, the latter of whom notoriously believed a newscast was only as good as the writing behind it.