Summer at Castle Stone Read online

“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 wors
t 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.”