Читать книгу Live From New York, It's Lena Sharpe - Courtney Litz - Страница 10

“Oh, Lena,” Tess said wearily as she took a glass of champagne from a circulating waiter.

We sat down on a red velvet banquette and surveyed the crowd—a quintessential Parker production, more commonly known as a press party.

I didn’t respond to Tess. I regretted having said anything to her at all about Colin and tried to look preoccupied with the scene around us, but that was almost futile. I had been to so many of these types of events, I was on a first-name basis with the waitstaff. It was always the same party with the same food—an assortment of tuna tartare on toast, mini quiches, and duck spring rolls. The cast of characters rarely changed—the usual mix of suit-wearing executives, a cluster of chain-smoking models, the stray B-list actor, and the odd club kid or two thrown in for the illusion of street cred.

“Hey, Lena, I’m sorry.” Tess touched my arm gently. “It’s just that I thought you were going to try to stop getting ahead of yourself. I don’t want to see you get hurt again, you know?” Why did the avoidance of “getting hurt” always involve some other type of pain? I wondered.

“Tess, don’t worry. I just think he’s intriguing. He’s a writer. He lives in the country. He has a golden retriever, for God’s sake,” I said. “He couldn’t be more different than Nick.”

“Well, that’s a good start,” she said.

“Besides, I haven’t even seen him. It’s fun just to daydream, you know?” I said lightly. In fact, I had not responded to Colin’s last e-mail immediately for this very reason. The sheer ambiguity of our exchange allowed me countless fantastical projections about just who Colin Bates was and how our obvious connection would evolve. Could he have soulful gray-green eyes and a talent for making homemade pasta? Why of course! These questions (and my imagination’s affirmative answers) could go on for days. I would sit at my desk happily sorting faxes or stapling Nadine’s “memos” fueled by the giddy daydreams of Colin reading to me from his new manuscript as we slurped down freshly made gnocchi. Sigh.

“Just promise me you’ll go slowly, okay?” Tess said, not giving up.

“Of course,” I said, but she eyed me suspiciously. “I swear, Tess!” I said, and looked away.

Circles of guests performing their festive obligations collided around us. I noticed a woman wearing men’s pinstripe pants and a tie wrapped around her chest like a bandeau top. A pencil-thin woman balanced a toddler on one hip and chatted on a cell phone—doing her best Jade Jagger-esque approximation of a bohemian parent. I spotted Parker expertly weaving her way through the crowd toward us, clipboard in hand, of course. She was in her element—a beautiful space, beautiful people and, most importantly, the position of authority to determine exactly who would be selected to enjoy it all. (I felt sure if Sleazy Cheese worked for Parker, he would be busy scrubbing floors in the back.)

“Thanks for coming, you guys—my agency friend flaked out on me again so we’re a little short on the model quotient, but you guys help fill the space,” she said brightly.

Tess and I shared a mental eye roll. It wasn’t personal— Parker was like a choreographer and press events were her ballet. To her, Tess and I were the klutzy understudies that always came through when the prima donna ballerinas got sick—or, in this case, got last-minute bookings for a Stuff magazine photo shoot. Parker adjusted her headset and perched herself on a windowsill cluttered with party detritus.

“I’m also glad you’re both here because I wanted to talk a little bit more about the dresses.”

And we were trapped. Tess flagged the waiter for another round and we girded ourselves, secretly praying for a heated coat-check incident to carry Parker and her premarital monologues away. As if a sign from God, Tess’s cell phone interrupted Parker’s intense dissection of the difference between periwinkle and robin’s-egg blue.

“Hey, Parker—I’m so sorry. I’ve really got to go,” Tess announced, snapping her cell phone shut. “I’m going to go meet Stanley for a nightcap at the Knickerbocker.” She gave me a heartfelt glance and with a kiss to each cheek she was gone.

“It’s almost impossible to sit the two of you down long enough to go over anything.” Parker looked annoyed.

“Actually, Parker, we haven’t seen very much of you since the engagement.”

“What?” She looked slightly offended. “I’ve been busy, Lena. Getting married is a full-time job. Brad and I have practically every weekend booked with appointments these days.” It must be so taxing to explain these things to a hopelessly single person….

“So, are things better now between you two?”

“Of course,” she said, without a hint of contemplation. Parker didn’t contemplate. “We argue, that’s all. It’s a sign of passion, Lena.” There were so many things she had to explain to me. Clearly my naiveté was exhausting her.

I wondered what it would be like to live inside Parker’s head—to love your job and not question its “meaning” constantly, to see your future in front of you, down to the color scheme of your first child’s (a boy—Bennett, or if it’s a girl— Bethany) nursery. What was it like to imagine your husband and see an actual face that you knew—not some vague collection of traits that seemed “ideal” but weren’t any more real than your childhood crush on Andy Gibb? Parker knew the rules and played the game. She knew what she wanted and she went after it with a zeal that sometimes scared me. She believed in the hierarchy of the world and comfortably, confidently, took her place within it. It was fun to make jokes about her new obsession with tulle and taffeta and her search for a good-looking reformed rabbi who wouldn’t dwarf Brad, but at least she was living a real life, planning real events that were meaningful, not snidely standing by on the sidelines waiting for something, anything to happen.

“So, I don’t know, Lena—I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you mind?”

“Uh…” I had no idea what she was talking about.

“It’s just that your color, as nice as it is, doesn’t quite complement the overall theme.” Parker raised her hands grandly and fluffed up the hair around my face, her eyes squinting critically.

“What color do you want it to be?” I asked.

“Brown with copper undertones.” She smiled brightly.

“My hair is brown, Parker.”

“Yes, but it has golden undertones.”

Yes, I thought, Parker’s world made sense to her. It did not, however, make sense to me.

“Parker!” One of her publicity plebes rushed to her side, his headset tangled in his overgelled hair. He blurted out some story about a nasty goody-bag tiff and Parker rose from her seat like a general facing the enemy.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Now that Tess was gone and dinner was taken care of (making a well-balanced meal out of finger food was a particularly good skill of mine), I figured it was time to call it a night. But then…

“Mind if I sit down?” A guy wearing a rumpled blue suit and a loose tie took over Parker’s vacated seat. Lightning-quick mental assessment: Points added—broad shoulders, full head of hair. Points subtracted—ditch the cuff links and (oh no!) lose the class ring for God’s sake.

Points to be determined—these events were usually all business, more about the illusion of a good time than the actual act—the subject’s approach could indicate that he’s an event novice, a naive young thing who has mistaken a publicity party for the pickup scene at the Cub Room.

“I’m Skip.” Skip. This wasn’t looking good. Point subtracted.

“I’m Lena—nice to meet you.” Well, you have to be polite, after all.

“So, do you work for TCT?”

After a moment of confusion, I realized he was talking about the “star” of the party—some tech company’s newest cell phone model (which Parker would gladly tell you both Brad Pitt and Gisele “absolutely swore by”). I imagined a walking phone with a feather boa and Gucci stilettos sauntering by.

“No, no…just a fan.” I decided to joke with Skip. He looked confused.

“Yeah, so—I’m here with some friends from UBS.”

Okay, I swear I’d misheard him when I said the following. “You work for UPS?”

“No.” Skip looked genuinely offended. “UBS—the investment bank,” he said, with a tone mixing both condescension and disdain. Did he know Nadine, I wondered? And what was so bad about UPS?

“So, what do you do at UBS?” I asked, in an attempt to ease his wounded ego.

“Well,” he inhaled. And we were off. Let the discussion of “me, Skip” commence.

It always amazed me how some men would answer this question with such intense, highly unnecessary detail. I watched Skip’s overbleached teeth bob up and down as he talked about internal messaging systems and transaction litigation. I noticed a mole, just under his nose. It had a long gray whisker just waiting to be plucked.

“So, me and the boys are just out to celebrate the deal.”

And so you came to a phone party.

“I know the party planner and she got me in,” he added.

Oh Lord, he was talking about Parker. I recoiled at the notion that Skip and I had other connections between us besides our mutual attendance at a phone party.

“So, what do you think of this tie?” His eyes gleamed. His eyes were gleaming over a tie. Bless him.

“Uh, it’s great.” How else do you answer that question?

“Got it down in Dallas when we were scouting out the service provider like I was telling you. Funny story, actually…”

Actually no, it would not be a funny story. Not at all, that much I was sure about. Why was Skip talking to me in the first place, I thought to myself while he droned on? He must, in some deep, dark recess of his beer-soaked, post-big-deal, three-martini-lunch state of mind, think there was a possibility that we had some level of compatibility?

He grabbed a chicken skewer from a passing tray. I looked at him and knew he was one of those guys who spread his legs out on the subway, taking up an extra seat. I watched him concentrate on his skewer, like an animal with his kill. I hated him right then. Intensely. I bet he played golf.

I really was being harsh. On some level I knew I was wrong and petty. Maybe, just maybe, Skip saw something that I wasn’t able—wasn’t ready—to see.

“Hey,” Skip looked up from his skewer. Our eyes met. “Did I mention that I really like your hair?”

The next morning, as Andre dutifully put the finishing touches on my new cut, I mentally repented for my previous night’s transgressions and made my usual resolution never to drink or smoke again, to go to the gym, reorganize my closet, and to be nicer to men like Skip in the future.

“Little bit different this time, Lena darling.”

“New season, new me.”

Andre winked at me approvingly in the mirror. I wish I could wink like that. Mental note: work on wink.

Not that I felt sorry for Skip—not in the least. Skip, in all his plain vanilla banality, was going to lead a perfectly pleasant, content life. After all, he fit into the world’s design like a hand in a glove (preferably by Brooks Brothers, of course). He very likely laughed at sitcoms, enjoyed dinners at the Country Club, and thought corporate culture was good and natural. He probably wasn’t even embarrassed to read People magazine in public. Despite myself, or perhaps as some sort of punishment for my previous rudeness, I couldn’t stop myself from imagining our life together…

I would drive a Honda minivan—we had considered a Lexus SUV, but that really wasn’t the place to put our money right now, what with the kids being small and the dog would tear it up anyway, so the minivan it would be. There would, of course, be a bumper sticker espousing our love for some sporting team or proudly trumpeting our honor-student kids. Our life would be a cheerful stew of organized events—PTA meetings, neighborhood board meetings, Little League games, homecoming games, bake sales, charity drives, 5K runs, winter carnivals and summer barbecues. I’d wear a bob and layers of loose-fitting clothing by Dana Buchman and Eileen Fisher. Natural fibers, earth tones and sensible shoes would enter my life. I would make casseroles. We would play bridge.

I couldn’t continue. And I wondered if it was because, perhaps, that life didn’t really seem as odious as I would like to imagine.

I exhaled audibly as I exited the salon, feeling safe in the knowledge that Andre—who was at least twenty times cooler and more stylish than myself—felt I had made a sound hair decision.

My cell phone rang. I swung my new tresses to the side and answered.

“Jesus, Lena, I cannot believe you!”

Parker. Here we go.

“Why? Of all people? Why did you have to single out Brad’s best friend to perform your one-woman sarcasm revue?”

Skip was Brad’s best friend? Of course.

“Look, Parker…” I decided to deal with her calmly.

“Sometimes, I just don’t get you,” she said, exasperated.

Even more positive affirmation, I thought happily. I was definitely feeling better.

“You do realize he will be walking you down the aisle, don’t you?”

“What?” I do believe I screeched.

“Stop it, Lena. You’re the only two that are unattached—you’ll practically be spending the entire evening together. I thought it would be a good thing for you.”

Yes, I thought, good like a colonoscopy is good for you.

“What do you have against nice guys, after all?”

Screw calmness. This was my moment.

“He called you a party planner,” I said, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

There was silence. And then the brittle tap of Parker’s manicured nails on her brushed metal desk. And then…

“That fucker.”

At 9:58 p.m., I poured some Chardonnay into my favorite plastic cup and folded myself snugly on the couch with my laptop resting nicely on a stack of throw pillows. I wondered briefly if this was how Internet porn users approached their task, but pushed the thought out of my mind as quickly as possible.

At 10:06, a particularly inauspicious time I thought, I typed a message.

Colin,

Just happened to be online—are you?

Lena

I took a sip and waited. And waited. And then…

Lena,

Hey there. I’ve been sitting here staring at the same paragraph on my computer for a solid hour. What’s a more, ahem, literary word for “sticky”? Anyway, I could use some pleasant procrastination. What’s up?

—cb

Interesting. He was approaching our online exchange as a welcome, almost expected—and appreciated—diversion. Subtle signs, but good ones. Still, must proceed cautiously. After all, I had made the initial overture.

Colin,

I know that you’re loath to subject yourself to the grimy, swarming mass that is the modern-day media, but—alas—I am a working gal and I’ve got a pesky little deadline (not to mention a pit-bull of a boss)… Can we talk business?

Lena

I took another sip of wine and waited.

Lena,

You bring up an interesting point. Isn’t the better question, this one: Why have you let yourself become a willing player in a liar’s game? Lena, I’m concerned—help me understand.

—cb

Oh, he was good. I paused, considering my response.

Colin,

You are quite sly, but don’t think I’ll be distracted from my objective by the lure of dissecting my own story—it’s not that interesting.

Lena

His response took an unbearably long time. I began my self-loathing monologue—I’m so boring. Why am I assuming such familiarity? I’m just a big, big, big, big dork. And then…

Lena,

So, how does one convince you to tell your story?

—cb

My heart leaped. He wanted to know my story? Mine? And then I panicked—I don’t have a story! There is no story! I’d set him up for a story and I did not have one!

Lena,

I’m waiting…

—cb

The cursor blinked impatiently—or was it flirtatiously? He was not, I could tell, in the mood for business. Shouldn’t I welcome this exchange? Yes, yes I should. I was sure of that. But how? Time was passing, I felt desperate. I started typing—something, anything.

Colin,

Nice try, but I think it’s best if we concentrate on you right now, the next big literary thing that you are.

Lena

I was so lame, lame, lame, lame, lame. What was wrong with me?

Lena,

I don’t think you think it has to be that way. What do you think?

—cb

Colin,

Hmm, let me think about it.

Lena

Lena,

But I’m bored with “me.” Isn’t that why we write, after all, to avoid the unrelenting burden of self?

—cb

Colin,

You are certainly quite the philosopher tonight. But, for the sake of sparing me the rancor of my superior, I must beg you to shoulder the “burden of self” for just a few moments…

Lena

Lena,

Excellent opening—thank you. Let’s talk about this boss of yours. Explain this relationship.

—cb

I didn’t respond. I had lost control of the conversation. I didn’t really want to talk about myself, but, on the other hand, did I really want him to stop? I was flattered by the idea that he wanted to know about me, but I was terrified that the sad truth of my answers would extinguish any further curiosity. I decided to be sarcastic, as usual.

Colin,

I couldn’t begin to explain that relationship. Any attempt, however, might cure your tendency to procrastinate.

Lena

Lena,

Okay, new topic. What’s your favorite time of day?

—cb

My favorite time of day? I paused, unsure how to respond. Now he was posing esoteric, soul-searching questions. Jesus, couldn’t we just talk about movies or something!

Colin,

Is this a trick question?

Lena

Lena,

No, just an innocent one.

—cb

Colin,

You tell me first.

Lena

Lena,

Dawn. Trite but true.

—cb

Colin,

Midnight.

Lena

Lena,

Why midnight?

—cb

Colin,

You first.

Lena

Lena,

Oh, you know—the world’s asleep, the day is new, the streets are empty, Hallmark card shit. And I can finally let my dog run around without a leash.

—cb

Colin,

Eloquent.

Lena

Lena,

Thanks. Your turn.

—cb

He had a way of unnerving me. I felt like I had to answer his questions. And well.

Colin,

Because it’s the dividing line. It’s the point between yesterday and tomorrow, between reasonably late and obscenely late. It separates the men from the boys, so to speak. Does that make sense?

Lena

What was I talking about? I had that feeling I got when I realized that I had said something intensely personal without meaning to.

Lena,

Are you a writer?

—cb

I didn’t know what to say—or write. I was so embarrassed by my poetic declaration. He was a writer, not me.

Lena,

Hello? Are you there?

—cb

I exhaled and sat up straight…

Colin,

Don’t be silly…I’m just a TV producer—that annoying person who’s supposed to sum up your life in 9 minutes and 22 seconds. As such, it’s my professional duty to remain impartial, objective, inscrutable. Now, start sharing.

Lena

He was trying to have a real conversation and I had blown it. He made me wait for his answer. Retribution?

Lena,

How am I to spill my innermost feelings to an “impartial, objective, inscrutable” listener? Hmm?

—cb

Good question.

The next day, Colin finally relented.

Lena,

I will boldly get this ball rolling, if for no other reason than to stop my publicist from leaving me threatening messages— I think I’m getting some insight into that boss of yours. Now, forgive my bluntness, but here is a list of the people who will likely (hopefully!) speak about me in unwavering, hyperbolic platitudes.

MOM (also known as “Libby Bates”): A no-brainer really. Should be very useful for teary, sentimental moments, if you so choose…

DR. ARTHUR LEEDY: Bespectacled, tweed-wearing professor who wisely spotted young Colin’s burgeoning talent and took him under his esteemed albeit aged wing.

CALEB: Best friend since boarding school, like a brother, good for embarrassing but good-natured stories about youthful high jinks.

There. A perfectly embarrassing start. Please kindly refrain from undue mocking.

Yours,

Colin

I sat at my desk for nearly an hour before it sank in that my job—my professional mandate—was to examine the life of my most recent crush.

How fitting. I was, after all, a girl with a long and tortured crush history. They had started early and with a fierce intensity. The first one, as is so often the case, was the most painful. His name was Rodney and he loved Spider-Man. I spent endless recesses watching him play dodge ball, wishing unchild-like ill will on his opposing teammates. When he got a nosebleed during a lecture by the local fire chief, I cried quietly in the bathroom, hoping for his swift recovery. I wanted to know everything about him. I watched which foods he chose at lunch—sloppy joes or hot dogs, which ice cream he liked—Nutty Buddies with the occasional Fudgsicle for good measure. One day, he gave me a plastic Minnie Mouse ring on the playground. I thought it meant something. It, time cruelly proved, did not. Rodney moved away to Akron a year later. I looked it up on the map—it was three thumbs away. It might as well have been Africa, I remember thinking.

So, here I was, twenty years later, and not much had changed. Except this time, I held the key to the lock box of my dear crush’s inner world—and I was required to look inside, inspect the contents thoroughly and report my findings. As difficult as it would be, I knew I had to quell my feelings and get serious. I might work for a show that considered a segment on Sienna Skye’s Buddha collection to be hard-hitting news, but I was still a journalist, dammit!

I picked up the phone at least three times to begin my investigation, only to put it down swiftly when the realization of my task overwhelmed me. I needed coffee. That was it. I could be a different person when properly caffeinated—nothing would stand in my way. I was hyped-up, no-non-sense Lena after a particularly potent espresso.

I marched to the kitchen to search for my loot. I stopped short when I noticed a rim of spiky gelled hair peaking over the refrigerator door—it had to be Chase. The door closed. It was just me and the Cheese.

“Leeena. Heeey!”

He was holding a Stonyfield Farms yogurt, french vanilla. I felt strongly that it was not his. I always wondered who would steal their co-workers lunch out of the communal fridge. Cheese would. I had no doubt.

“Hi, Chase. Just getting some coffee.”

“Midafternoon slump, huh?”

Could blood really boil? I pondered the thought.

“Uh, no Chase. I’m riding high on the adrenaline of my job.”

“Oh right.” He looked flustered. “Me, too.” I’d challenged his own intensity. Cheese apparently had no capacity for sarcasm.

“We’re just tweaking the Skye piece. It looks aaaaawesome, I have to say.”

He had to say that his piece looks “aaaaawesome.” Perhaps because I shot all the footage and did all of the pre-interviews. Perhaps because I had all the visuals selected and edited. Perhaps because all Cheese had to do was position himself behind the editor with his arms crossed, and nod while Nadine called the few remaining shots.

“How’s that thing you’re working on?”

Physical violence seemed inevitable.

I said nothing. I eyed his yogurt. He shifted uncomfortably. I eyed his yogurt again and then looked into his beady, lying eyes, burrowing through his tinted contacts to pierce his dark, little soul. Yogurt, Cheese, yogurt, Cheese, yogurt, Cheese, yogurt, Cheese, yogurt, Cheese.

“Okay, well I’ve got to get back to the edit,” he stammered, backing away. I waited.

“Hey, Chase.”

He turned cautiously. I paused.

“Don’t you want a spoon?” I let the words slither out slowly.

His mouth was slack, his eyes wide. He said nothing and scampered away like a roach caught by the kitchen lights.

I marched back to my desk, resolute. I didn’t need coffee—I was running on rage. Call number one: Professor Leedy.

I punched the numbers as casually as if I were calling Tess. It rang. I waited.

“Hello?” An elderly man answered.

“Hello, Professor Leedy?”

“Speaking.”

I could hear classical music in the background. I imagined he was working on a lecture, editing a book, formulating a new school of thought, while smoking a pipe of some sort.

“Hi, I’m Lena Sharpe. I’m working on a television profile of Colin Bates.”

“Oh, yes, yes, dear—he told me you might call.”

I loved Professor Leedy already. He was the sort of college professor that I was supposed to have had—not the endless stream of messy-haired grad students with bad breath, trudging through their sixth Ph.D. year, working on dissertations about the role of identity and gender in twentieth-century post-WWII Slovakian cinema.

I pictured Professor Leedy, settling back in his worn leather chair, surrounded by richly hued mahogany furniture, plush Oriental rugs, and an eclectic array of classical busts and collected artifacts from his travels throughout the world. He would be reserved but warmhearted, pleasantly rumpled but mentally disciplined. He would listen carefully, speak infrequently, but counsel wisely. He would drink bourbon and wear tweed.

“Colin, I can tell you,” he began unprompted, “is a real talent. Have you read his poetry?” He asked, sounding as if he truly hoped I had.

“Well, no—I didn’t realize he wrote poetry.” I was blushing.

“Oh, you must read it, Lena. Though I’m sure Colin would be incensed if he knew I’d shown it to you! He’s still a young man trying to preserve his tough outer shell, after all.”

“Well, I’m afraid it’s my job to chip away at that very shell.” I wasn’t sure where my words were coming from, if you must know.

“I suppose it is, my dear.” He paused, raising one eyebrow I felt sure. “I think you’ll find it to be a rewarding task should you be persistent.”

Was Professor Leedy testing me? Could the wise, aged professor be sniffing out a potential match for his prized protégé? It was a ridiculous thought, but… I panicked—how does one appeal to an octogenarian Milton scholar? What would an octogenarian Milton scholar look for? Intelligence, yes—I could string a sentence together, perhaps toss in a literary reference or two, sure. Problem was that I never found myself to be less coherent and more ditzy than when I was trying to project an erudite image. And, let’s be honest here, I was not in the daily habit of deconstructing classic literature—it just wasn’t how my life was organized at the moment.

“So, it’s done—I will send you my volume. I really think that it will help you get to the heart of, well, his heart.” He chuckled lightly.

There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? The next call, however, would not be as easy. There really was no way to prepare for this one. I cleared my throat and tried to detach myself from the bizarre nature of the task at hand. This is my job. This is my job. This is my job.

Libby Bates answered the phone herself. She sounded refined, elegant, educated. And tall. Definitely tall.

“Hi there.” Hi there?

I looked down at my notes—yes, I had notes.

“This is Lena Sharpe. I’m an associate producer at the television show Face to Face and I’m calling about the profile of your son, Colin, that we’re doing.” I started to understand how a telemarketer must feel: And, if you have a moment, I’d like to discuss your long-distance telephone service.

“Oh yes, of course. Could you just hold on for one second?…Teresa, would you mind watching the stove for me for a moment. I’ll need to take this call. Thank you.”

I was a call she “needed to take”! I wondered what she was cooking. I was glad that she didn’t expect Teresa to take care of everything.

“Yes, I’m so sorry. We’re having some people over tonight, so it’s a bit chaotic here.” She said this in a way that seemed to convey that she didn’t mind the chaos so very much.

“Oh, I’m sorry—I don’t mean to interrupt. I can certainly call back at a better time.”

“Oh no, don’t be silly. I’m glad you called. I’m just so proud of Colin—I realize of course that that’s not a shock, coming from his mother after all.” She laughed. She did seem proud, but not in a boastful, “my child’s talent is a reflection of my own” or “isn’t it now obvious what a fabulous job I have done raising my child” way. Just genuine excitement and goodwill. Touching really.

“I was just calling to see if you might be willing to do a short interview for the piece—”

“I’m so sorry, Lena. One second.” And then, “Teresa, would you mind letting Emmylou in—she’s scratching at the door.” Emmylou! Colin’s Emmylou?! Yes, I was this excited over a dog.

“I know!” Libby Bates exclaimed suddenly. I wasn’t sure if she was talking to Teresa, Emmylou or me.

“Why don’t you come over tonight for the party and we can talk about it there?” She was pleased with her solution. I was speechless.

“Oh, well, of course,” I stammered and then, worried that I seemed rude, I tried to be more emphatic. “Of course, I’d love to.”

“Fantastic. We’re at one-eighteen East Ninety-second. You should come by around eight or so. It’s just a silly casual thing for the Central Park Children’s Zoo.”

“This is so kind of you, Mrs. Bates.”

“My pleasure, darling. Really. See you soon!”

I hung up the phone—confused, nervous and excited. This was not in my notes.