Hot Desk: A Novel - 17

It had been a week since what Ben thought of as his epic night with Atticus, and by “epic” he meant only that he had held the Lion’s manuscript in his hands. Atticus, as usual, had been sending a stream of nonsense texts, but no word on any fallout from that night, nor had he made good on his claim that he would get Ben a meeting with Mrs. Adams. And then, to his surprise, yesterday Ben had received an email invitation from Mrs. Adams herself to meet at the town house this afternoon. He hadn’t even made it to his desk when Caro waylaid him.

“Ben. I’d like to prepare a game plan. From what I’ve heard, Avenue is doing a victory dance. Ty and I have been shut out so far, so your pitch meeting is our best hope of landing the estate. The Lion’s widow seems as unconventional as he was, and it’s still unclear what exactly is going on.” She looked at him sternly, and he refrained from admitting he too was at a loss to explain what exactly was going on. “I don’t love being held at arm’s length, but I trust your friendship with Atticus Adams will give us some insight into how Hawk can win a share of the estate.”

Ben’s “friendship” with Atticus was not exactly the pillar to support Caro’s expectations. Ben thought it best not to mention that but instead to see how the meeting played out first. After promising Caro he would stop by before he left, Ben began the now familiar process of unpacking his belongings onto his desk: laptop, water bottle, and Bill Russell. Was he really going to keep lugging the bobblehead doll back and forth every week just so Howie could play with it? Probably. He had left the photo of the Lion leaning against the monitor by mistake. Or maybe not exactly by mistake? He had been so annoyed by Rebecca Blume during the desk sharing meeting that maybe he had subconsciously left it there. Her attitude was terrible. Her Zoom etiquette was subpar at best. He was swabbing the desk with Clorox every night and she was slowly killing a cactus and leaving more traces of her presence, which, as a member of the Cooperative whatever-Orwellian-name-it-was Committee, she of all people should know was not cool. Aaannnd there it was. Another Post-it, cut carefully into a speech bubble and stuck to his photo. The Lion was saying, “OF COURSE MEN KNOW BEST ABOUT EVERYTHING EXCEPT WHAT WOMEN KNOW BETTER.” —MARY ANN EVANS, A.K.A. GEORGE ELIOT. In the middle of the monitor was a flagrant pink Post-it: “ EVOLVE, BEN. ”

Evolve ? Was Rebecca Blume kidding? Ben was willing to bet he was the only person she knew who had actually read George Eliot. His English teacher mother had requested that he do so for her fiftieth birthday, and it had taken him all summer. His mom had been thrilled, and Middlemarch was actually pretty good, so screw Rebecca Blume. He ripped the Post-it off the photo of the Lion. Sure, a man who came of age in the 1950s and ’60s was bound to have the occasional antiquated and possibly—okay, probably—problematic view, but it was reductive and merciless to hold everything the Lion had ever done to today’s standards. Evolve? The person Ben loved most in the world was a queer Marxist feminist! And if Ava had taught him anything, it was that being a good person meant being able to learn from discomfort, from being challenged, and, yes, to accept that you were never finished evolving. He tore the speech bubble Post-it into tiny pieces.

“Dude. Are you okay?” Howie had sneaked up behind him. “Just here to remind you about the eleven a.m. meeting. And Caro wants you at the task force meeting tomorrow about Jennifer Aniston’s memoir.” Howie picked up Bill Russell and spoke in a squeaky voice: “The One When Jennifer Aniston Tells All!”

Ben had naively hoped that being a book editor would involve reading manuscripts all day, perhaps broken up by inspiring author and agent lunches. So far, his days were filled with meetings and emails. Almost all the reading he did—and there was a lot of it—was at night after he got home, working around his shifts at the bar. The background to his conversation with Howie was the steady ding of emails arriving to his inbox. Ben reminded himself that this was his dream job. His phone alerted him to a text. He bid farewell to Howie and watched as the texts multiplied.

Atticus:

benjamin my man

should be a riot todayyyy

is it an intervention

brekkie [photo of steak and eggs]

Ben:

you’re up early

Atticus:

or am i up late

you heard of microdosing

how about macrodosing

Ben:

do you mean overdosing?

Atticus:

chill chill

ttrlkosdo0wu8jdw3e

Ben:

are you ok

Atticus:

mgoejdpor93ujkjg

Ben:

??

Atticus:

mallor on my lappppp

mally

mallory

[photo of long blonde hair and shoulder]

jacks wife freda

Ben:

who?

Atticus:

where we r in west village come join

Ben:

at work but will see you later

at town house

you good?

Atticus:

carmine

on carmine st i order you shakshuka

Ben:

meeting at 2 right?

maybe you should get an IV drip?

see you then

2pm

Atticus:

Ben checked the drawer to make sure Rebecca Blume hadn’t left chocolate or kombucha. Or maybe another Post-it? There were three Biscoff cookies but at least they were still wrapped. Was there any chance Atticus would be sobered up by 2 p.m.? Maybe they should have an intervention. In a battle between Atticus and Rose Adams, Ben would not bet against Rose. She was calm in the face of an intruder and had the entire New York publishing world holding its breath to see what she would do next. Unfortunately, he was now aligned, for better or worse—and he understood it was for worse—with Atticus. He checked his emails, which were still coming in at an alarming rate. There was an encouraging one from the agent about the offer Ben had made on Marc Cooker’s book of short stories (linked!).

As he was scrolling, a new email arrived from Rose Adams suggesting that Ben come to the town house early so that he could look through the Lion’s book. Soon he would be among the first people to lay eyes on an unpublished work by the Lion. He stood up quickly and headed to Caro’s office to tell her about this new development. He was going to read the manuscript this time. He was going to meet with Rose Adams. Officially.

Ben got out of the Uber that Caro had insisted he take to the town house. His phone dinged and he checked a text from Atticus: a selfie composed mostly of white teeth and cigarette smoke and the mysterious Mallory’s hair. What were the odds that Atticus would show up by 2 p.m.? Maybe it would be more advantageous if he wasn’t there, Ben thought. Once he skimmed the novel—Ben shivered a little in anticipation, even in the unseasonal warmth of the May afternoon—he would appreciate a chance to speak about it to the person closest to the Lion. He had felt a connection with Rose Adams that night; she hadn’t freaked out when she’d found him in her living room at 3 a.m., secret manuscript in hand, glitter on his face. She didn’t have to tell him that the Lion had appreciated his emails, but she did. She was entirely more reasonable and responsible than Atticus, though Ben knew that was not a high bar.

In the light of day, the town house was even more impressive, and Ben was tempted to take a look into the East River Review office. As he gazed down the stone stairs at the blue door, a man in a hat spun by him on a bike, aggressively ringing a little bell. Ben moved hastily out of the way as the man came to an abrupt stop, dismounted, and chained his bike to the iron fence in front of the entrance to the magazine. Ben recognized him as Thomas O’Flanagan, successful novelist, disciple of the Lion’s, and present editor of the East River Review .

Under O’Flanagan’s vaguely unfriendly gaze, Ben approached the door and rang the bell. Since Howie had introduced him to BLURB, Ben had reactivated his Instagram account to stay on top of the industry news. What he had learned was what he already knew (he was underpaid, overworked, lucky to have a job), and what he didn’t know (the process of buying and selling books was murderously competitive, and the industry was littered with beaten-down English majors whose love of books was being slowly crushed by the corporate machine). But here he was, at the Lion’s house.

The town house door opened and a woman who introduced herself as Lorraine ushered him inside. The foyer was cool and quiet, but Ben could hear laughter from upstairs.

Rose Adams was sitting shoulder to shoulder on the window seat with a woman about her age. When they looked up at him, Ben had the feeling he had interrupted an intimate conversation. “Oh, Ben, welcome,” Rose Adams said, almost as if she had forgotten he was coming. “This is Jane Kinloch, an old friend.” Both of the women smiled as if in possession of a joyful secret. “Jane, this is Ben Heath. He’s a big fan of Teddy’s and he’s seen me in my bathrobe.”

Ben felt his face redden. He was used to older women finding him charming, but he wasn’t sure how to read these two. “I apologize again, Mrs. Adams.”

“Please call me Rose,” Rose said breezily.

“Especially since you’ve already seen her in her nightclothes,” Jane added. From across the room, where they were still sitting, the women looked suddenly young and conspiratorial. Jane was wearing a stylish printed dress and her silver-gray hair fell neatly to her shoulders. Mrs. Adams—Rose—was wearing cropped pin-striped pants and an oversize white shirt. A pile of thin gold bangles slid up and down her arm when she gestured.

“We have about an hour until the others join us,” Mrs. Adams—Rose—said. “That should give you enough time to take a quick look at Teddy’s… novel. Lorraine will bring you some water or a coffee if you prefer. We can set you up in the study.” She pulled herself away from Jane and stood up. In her heels, she was even taller than Ava. She motioned to the pool table, bracelets clinking. “There you go.”

The manuscript Ben had held with awe the other night was still neatly bound with a rubber band. Making the Sun Run by Edward David Adams. Ben scooped the pages from the green felt surface of the table, turned off his phone, and left it in the manuscript’s place. Maybe Rose hadn’t asked, but he didn’t want her to think he would abuse her trust and photograph anything. He said a polite goodbye to Jane and followed Rose.

The Lion’s study was furnished with the same heavy desk from his author photo, bookcases crammed with a jumble of volumes, a stone fireplace set with wood, above it a large painting in a burnished gold frame of a ship on the ocean, and a faded red vintage rug. It smelled faintly of tobacco and vanilla. The vanilla, Ben knew, was the “old book” smell, the scent of family vacations in Maine with ancient games of Monopoly and swollen bird-watching guides, the scent of paperbacks in cardboard boxes that his mom loved to sort through at garage sales, the scent of the compounds in the paper breaking down: bibliosmia . The smell of books dying. It was a metaphor for something, Ben thought, but not the end of books.

Ben sat on a leather couch the color of a cigar, cool to the touch. Lorraine brought him a pitcher of water and a glass. When he was finally alone in the Lion’s study, breathing the same air the Lion had breathed while he composed some of the best literature Ben had ever read—right there, between the gold pen and the pipe stand, the Lion had probably written The Coldest War —Ben held very still. Be in the moment , he counseled himself. Don’t forget anything about this. He thought again of his younger self, the glittering stars in the Vermont sky, the Lion’s voice resonating. Then he carefully slid the rubber band off the stack of yellow papers and turned the first page. The epigraph, written as all of it was, in the Lion’s strong, blocky handwriting—“Thus, though we cannot make our sun / Stand still, yet we will make him run”—was by Andrew Marvell, from a poem Ben dimly remembered about making the most of life, something about devouring time. Yes, the Lion had died and his study bore the smell of decaying books, but there was immortality here, under Ben’s palm. He began to read.

An hour later, Rose appeared in the doorway. Ben looked up at her. He knew his face had drained of color. “Have a sip of water,” Rose suggested gently. Ben obeyed. He tried to pinpoint his emotions. Disappointment loomed the largest, obviously, followed by a streak of anger, then a sliver of… what was it? Oh, right: embarrassment. Embarrassment for the Lion and, if he was being honest, embarrassment for himself, Ben Heath, who had clung to his idea of the Lion. He had clung to his reverence for this writer who had had such an outsize influence on him. From that evening at Bread Loaf to his graduate thesis to his job at Hawk Mills to this very point in time. Here where his hero worship, his stubborn lionizing , had landed him: with a bad book in his hands. Granted, in the one hundred pages or so that Ben had read, there were some surprising metaphors and the Lion’s trademark precise, rich sentences. But not even the occasional masterful turn of phrase could obscure the fact that this book was not written by a great man. In fact, the man who wrote this book, Ben thought despairingly, was an asshole.

“Not quite as you had hoped,” Rose said rather than asked, in what Ben could only call a complete understatement.

“Not quite, no.” Ben couldn’t bring himself to meet her gaze and busied himself pouring another glass of water. He didn’t even know how to start, so he asked the obvious questions: “So Janet is a real person? And Roberta is supposed to be you?”

“Yes.” Rose paused. “Quite unforgivable, really.”

“Unforgivable that he wrote them in the first person?” Ben was a firm believer that women could write in the voice of men, that men could write in the voice of women, that authors could and should use their imaginations to get in the heads of people different from themselves. He understood appropriation—he wasn’t clueless—and certainly he believed representation, opportunity, and access were essential. So if you were going to write in a voice not your own, it had to be believable. It had to be good. It had to mean something.

“Well, that and his renaming us Janet and Roberta.”

Ben wasn’t ready to smile yet. “Do you mind my asking… is it true?”

“Do you mean did my relationship with Teddy begin in layers of deceit and infidelity? Yes. Did we have an affair that finally broke up his marriage? Yes. Did he seduce and assault my best friend and did we not speak for almost forty years because I had no idea until I read this book? Yes. Does being a genius mean that everything you do should be excused and that everything you write is genius? Quite obviously, no.”

Somehow, Ben felt chastised. “I’m sorry,” he found himself saying. He meant it. He really was sorry. He had believed that everything the Lion wrote was genius.

Rose gathered the manuscript and snapped the rubber band around it. “I hope you’re not put off by my candor. But you’ve read enough to know what we’re dealing with here. It’s emotional for me, obviously.”

“Of course,” Ben assured her. It was emotional for him too, but even in his dismay, he recognized that his reading this book was nothing compared to Rose’s reading it. How had the Lion thought for a minute that it was a good idea to write in the voice of a young woman he had, in her words—meaning his words—“ravished”? How had he thought it was a good idea to use the word “ravished”? Was it ever a good idea for anyone to use the word “ravished”? The book displayed the Lion’s paranoia, his defensiveness. It was hard to reconcile with that unforgettable short story he had heard so long ago. What was he going to tell Caro? Had he really imagined striding back into the office with breaking news of a new novel?

“Other than a few facts,” Rose said, “there is very little that is true in here. And trust me, I’ve since learned that his version was beyond self-serving. I lived in a kind of cage, Ben, and that was never more obvious to me than when I read this book. You see my dilemma. I can’t think of one good reason why it should be published. Can you?”

Ben shook his head. To be good for his own career didn’t seem worth a mention. “It would tarnish his legacy,” he said slowly. He thought about Rebecca Blume’s rude Post-its. Maybe his legacy deserved to be tarnished? The Lion had literally stolen the women’s voices.

“I agree. There is enough in his existing work that is ripe for reevaluation, for—what do you say these days?—calling out. And that’s in his best work. That writing, with its flaws and its brilliance— that should be engaged with… not this.” Rose brandished the manuscript. “ This would be excoriated. Rightly so.”

“Yes.” Ben felt deflated. But Rose was right that the Lion’s best work had value, that it could spar with and, Ben still believed, withstand what people could throw at it. But not this mess of a book.

Rose turned in the doorway and asked over her shoulder, “So, Ben Heath, would you like to come talk to ‘Janet’?”

Ben followed Rose back toward the living room. The disillusionment of reading Making the Sun Run was slowly making space for an idea. He was thinking about what Rose had said about the difference between what was a fact and what was true. Good literature was about what was true. The Lion’s unpublished manuscript was a version of a story in which he inhabited (badly) “Janet” and “Roberta,” to make himself look better. Ben knew fiction often traveled alongside “facts” and sometimes came together with what was “real” in the service of what was “true.” Writers stole and manipulated and spied and betrayed to benefit their stories. It wasn’t wrong that the Lion had wanted to chronicle his version of what had happened, but it was too bad that he had asserted a particularly tone-deaf authority and used “Roberta” and “Janet” as first-person mouthpieces for his grievances. Ben knew Rose Adams had been a writer herself. According to Making the Sun Run , Janet had been a writer too. A good one. What if Rose and Janet/Jane wrote their version?

When he came through the doors, Jane was standing by the pool table, idly cracking the pool balls together with her hands. She gave Ben a wry smile. Ben resisted the urge to keep apologizing. It was awkward to be face-to-face with the two women he had just read about in what could only be described as cringey sex scenes. He knew from the book that Jane and the Lion had played a high-stakes game of strip pool. “I trust you see why we would prefer this book never see the light of day.” Jane gave one of the balls a hard whack, knocking it into the corner pocket.

“Yes, of course.”

“And we were hoping you might be able to talk some sense into Atticus,” Rose said, adding, “He should be here shortly.”

Ben wondered at the assumption that he could control Atticus, let alone that Atticus would show up. He supposed he had only brought it on himself by playing up their relationship in hopes that he could get his hands on the Lion’s new book. Did Rose think he was Atticus’s only friend? Was he? Ben thought again about the possibility of Rose and Jane writing a response. Something along the lines of how Liz Phair had written an entire album taking on the Rolling Stones’ Exile on Main St . song by song, which Ben was intimately aware of, since Ava and his mom had played Phair’s Exile in Guyville approximately a thousand times on a family road trip.

“You said there were also letters and unpublished short stories, right?” Maybe he could salvage something to bring back to Caro. Even if the book was never published, Rose was still interested in moving the estate away from PK, right? Why not to Hawk Mills, then?

Rose started to answer when there was a sudden commotion behind him. Someone was rushing up the staircase, calling out, “I’m so sorry I’m late! It was unlocked!”

Ben turned around just as a young woman arrived breathless at the top of the stairs. Ben instantly recognized her as the woman he had seen on the big screen at his office. How could it be? She was even more beautiful in person, Ben thought, radiating vitality, her dark hair escaping a bun and spilling to her shoulders, her eyes sparkling and face flushed. He couldn’t control the huge smile that burst out of him. He’d found her by sheer stupid good luck! She had stopped suddenly, her oversize bag sliding down her shoulder. Then her entire face lit up as she smiled back. Ben could swear that there was an actual jolt of energy that flowed between them and rocked him back on his heels. All the clichés that he would delete from a manuscript took over his body: pounding heart, quick breath, a heightened awareness of her every expression, an inability to stop smiling. Her dark brows, her intensity, her perfect mouth. She was ravishing. The word had just leaped into his head! “Ravishing” was worlds away from “ravished,” right? Was he the objectifying asshole now? What was happening? Something, Ben was certain, even though he had read about it a thousand times, that had never happened to anyone ever before. An instantaneous, powerful physical connection that left him helpless to do anything but let the moment stretch out forever while they kept smiling at each other, the lightning sparking back and forth between them.

“Ah, Rebecca!” Rose called from behind him. “Ben, this is Rebecca Blume. Rebecca, meet Ben Heath, a good friend of Atticus’s and an editor at Hawk Mills. Ben, Rebecca works with Avenue, the imprint that’s going to release Teddy’s backlist. I’m so glad to have the two of you here to help us hash out the situation with Making the Sun Run .”

It was as if a record needle had screeched across an album, a terrible sound Ben was acquainted with since Ava had gotten her hands on his stereo when they were children. What the actual fuck? Even as everything in his body was still leaning toward her, his brain was racing to catch up to the words “Rebecca Blume.” Even now, her face was a mirror of his, her radiant smile dimming, her eyes darkening in dismay. “Wait. What? Ben Heath ?” They glared at each other.

“Come, come,” Rose said, oblivious to what Ben was sure had to be obvious: the currents snapping dangerously around him and Rebecca Blume as they stood rooted, eyes flashing. “Lorraine is bringing out some cheese and her homemade fig jam.” As Ben watched intently, Rebecca’s face flushed even more and she dragged her gaze away from his, breaking the spell. She walked quickly past him, and since, unable to move, he was blocking her way, she brushed against his arm. They leaped apart, electrocuted. Ben’s pulse was thudding as if he had played full court all day.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Jane said, giving Rebecca a quick kiss.

“Hey, Mom.” Rebecca dropped her bag and sat on one of the high-backed chairs across from the couch. She crossed her legs and studiously looked away from Ben.

Mom ? What, Ben asked himself again, was happening? He willed himself to go into the room where Lorraine had placed a large plate of charcuterie on a table next to the low couch. Rose dropped the manuscript back onto the pool table, Jane slid a last ball into the side pocket, and Rebecca Blume stared out the window at the river as if it were her job. Ben made his way to one of the chairs, but Rebecca picked up her giant bag and plunked it on the seat. “Are you saving that for someone?” Ben asked incredulously.

“Yes,” Rebecca replied frostily. “For my mom.”

“Is this the middle school cafeteria?” Ben muttered.

“The couch is comfortable.” Rebecca still wouldn’t look at Ben directly.

Ben peered at the couch dubiously. It was a long way down. Rose settled on the window seat, and Jane, after filling a small plate with prosciutto and melon, waited until Rebecca swept her bag off the chair. Ben knew he was looming. “Have a seat.” Rebecca waved her hand at the couch and gave him a quick glance under thick lashes. She was wearing a short flowered blue dress and high brown suede boots. Her hair was curling around her face, and he could see a little sheen of sweat above her perfect lip. No! She was the enemy and not at all attractive to him anymore! Ben was not the kind of guy who didn’t take personality into account. Rebecca Blume was an alluring vessel for a flawed character: at best supremely annoying and at worst possibly deranged. Ben could and would master his disobedient body, which was even now bending toward her where she sat. He dropped onto the couch, a terrible mistake that he realized as soon as he hit bottom and his knees were almost taller than his head.

“So now that we’ve read it, let’s begin where I think we all agree,” started Rose. “That Making the Sun Run , for numerous reasons, should not be published.”

“To start with,” Rebecca said, her gaze somewhere above Ben’s shoulder, “that title? Fitting that he’s quoting a poem about sexual harassment.”

If there was ever a time for Ben not to mention that he remembered the Marvell poem differently, this was that time. Still, he chafed a little under Rebecca’s selective memory and obvious exaggeration. He would not be drawn into defending this particular (indefensible) work of the Lion’s, but he was not ready to dismiss everything the man had written. “It’s really disappointing,” Ben began. “But it’s not published, and it doesn’t have to be—”

“Obviously!” Rebecca interrupted. “I mean, we’ve all read it. If it were published, it would expose the Lion to ridicule and cancellation! Which, I might add, would be richly deserved.”

“But not,” Rose said gently, “the best idea in terms of Avenue’s plans for reissuing and repackaging his work…”

Ben processed what Rose had said before and was confirming now. Avenue was winning the estate. For no other reason than Rebecca Blume was Jane’s daughter? Rebecca Blume, who clearly despised the Lion and was not remotely the right person to guide the process of protecting his legacy? Rebecca had flushed at Rose’s correction, and Ben had never seen such luminous skin. No! She was an undeserving nepo baby! “I know it might not be appropriate to ask,” he said, “but is it a done deal that Avenue is handling the estate?”

Rebecca shot him a furious look. “Seriously?”

Ben ignored her and looked up at Rose. “I mean, I guess I’m not 100 percent sure why I’m here.”

Rose offered Ben the charcuterie, which he politely declined but only because there was no way to eat it from his position. “Yes, I’d like to have Avenue handle the estate: Rebecca has offered some very thoughtful ideas about how best to reintroduce Teddy’s work to today’s audience. In particular, I was impressed with the plan to reach out to young women.”

“By canceling him?” Ben said under his breath. Something about Rebecca Blume brought out the worst in him. Although, in his defense, this was the least professional meeting he had ever attended, and he had once negotiated a deal for a book about maple syrup during a Grateful Dead tribute concert at Nectar’s Bar in Burlington.

“I know that you have a close relationship with Atticus and that you had a connection to Teddy. Your opinion is important to me, especially since it’s less biased than the other readers so far.” Here, Rose smiled at Rebecca, who was fuming above Ben, her booted foot swinging in agitation.

“And again,” Jane said, “we really hope you can help us convince Atticus to let this book go without a fight. He doesn’t, as far as I understand it, have an actual claim on it, but he’s being difficult.”

“I want him to feel as though he has some agency,” Rose said. “The stipulations of Teddy’s will are a shock to him, and I know he’s in pain.”

Ben thought about how Atticus had said that Rose was disappointed in him. “I can talk to him, of course, but…” So he was here in his capacity as Atticus’s “close” friend? And not representing Hawk Mills as competition for Avenue? How had this all gotten so far away from him? Between Rose and Caro, he was going to have to seriously tamp down everyone’s expectations. He was still reeling from the experience of reading the Lion’s terrible book and, if he was honest, the shock of the collision between the imagined Rebecca Blume of desk sharing and the actual Rebecca Blume scowling at him. Somewhere in the mix was the cherished image of the green-eyed woman he had been holding close.

There was another sudden cacophony on the stairs, and Atticus himself appeared in the doorway, his white shirt untucked, his eyes pinwheeling. It was clear that he had been up all night. “Making some decisions? Figuring ways to cut me out?” Atticus addressed the room in general, and Rose stood up.

“I invited you to this meeting,” she said calmly. “I’m very interested in your input about the estate, Atticus. I wanted you to meet Rebecca Blume from Avenue. I think you’ll be impressed by Avenue’s ideas about how to reissue Teddy’s work and to introduce his unpublished stories. And this is Jane Kinloch, an old friend of mine. We’d like to explain why we’re not going to publish the novel. I know your friend Ben can back us up…”

“Benjamin! My man!” Atticus spotted Ben, who began the Herculean task of trying to heave himself up off the couch. “What’s your verdict? What did you think of the great man’s last tome?” Atticus propped himself against the doorframe, his glassy eyes darting around the room.

“Have you read it?” Ben couldn’t converse and stand at the same time; it would take all his effort to get up.

“What does it matter? It’s the Lion, man. It’s worth its weight in gold, am I right? Or was it Bolivian powder?”

“We should talk about it.” How was it that he was in basketball shape but not haul-himself-off-a-low-couch shape?

“ Et tu , Benjamin?” Atticus stumbled into the room and leaned against the end of the pool table. “You’ve all taken a vote? Thumbs down on the Lion’s last book? Is that what this little committee decided?”

“Use your core,” Rebecca said to Ben unhelpfully as he struggled.

“Screw it.” Atticus snatched the manuscript off the pool table and clutched it to his chest. “This is my dad’s book.” His voice broke a little.

“Hold up,” Ben said, finally lurching to his feet with a powerful combination of adrenaline and quad, not core, strength. The vulnerability in Atticus’s stance moved him. They just had to convince Atticus that this book would hurt the Lion, no matter how much money it might make. He caught Atticus’s eye, trying to convey sympathy. Atticus winked at him. What the fuck?

“Atticus,” Rose said firmly. Ben and Rebecca moved forward at the same time and bumped each other. Rebecca recoiled dramatically. Ben was trying to focus while the entire side of his body near Rebecca was vibrating. He took a few strides toward Atticus, who stumbled backward. Rebecca was advancing around the other side of the pool table, trying to be sneaky. In monitoring her progress, Ben took his eye off Atticus, who was able to stagger out of reach.

“If you’d just listen for a minute.” Ben snapped back to attention and raised his hands to indicate his innocent intentions. How was he always a threat in this place?

“I’m done listening,” Atticus responded, tightening his grip on the manuscript. “I came here in good fraith. Fainth.”

“ Faith ?” Ben took a small step closer in this demented game of Red Light, Green Light. Atticus danced back, suddenly surprisingly nimble for someone under all the influences. Ben glimpsed Rebecca out of the corner of his eye, also tiptoeing closer but with far less stealth than she obviously intended.

“Not to publish this?” Atticus turned to catch Rebecca, who stopped abruptly in her tracks. “Unconshusshunable.”

“Unconscionable to publish it!” Rebecca, as Ben suspected, was constitutionally incapable of not arguing, even when placating was clearly the wiser path. Also incapable of not showing off her ability to smoothly pronounce “unconscionable,” which was, in fairness, a mouthful.

“The last thing my father ever wrote.” Atticus kept his eye on Rebecca beseechingly.

Recalling the wink, Ben knew Atticus was full of it, and he hoped Rebecca was savvy enough to see through his manipulations. No such luck. She was obviously softening. Ben crept close enough to smell the potpourri that was Atticus: sweat, bourbon, weed, something bitter (cocaine?), and something really good (expensive cologne?). What was the actual plan? Tackling him? Rebecca was clearly distracting Atticus with her distracting beauty. Ben took another quick glance at her. Her expression was compassionate, earnest, kind. She was completely taken in by Atticus’s bullshit!

“If you just hand it to me,” she said sweetly, “we can talk about it.”

“Seriously?” Ben couldn’t help but mutter.

“Seriously?” Rebecca snapped. As they glared at each other, Atticus leaped for the doorway.

Ben and Rebecca lunged at him but managed to collide and spring apart as Atticus ran swiftly if unsteadily down the stairs. “He had no intention of giving it to you!” Ben said, rubbing his arm where he could still feel the heat of her body.

“I was placating him!” Rebecca retorted. “It was working!”

Ben revised his theory that placating was the wiser path. “He saw right through you!” he argued.

“And what, pray tell, was your plan?” Rebecca continued furiously. “ Ninja him?”

Before Ben could reply— Ninja him?! —he caught sight of Rose and Jane, their expressions revealing both bewilderment and mild alarm.

The door downstairs in the foyer slammed. Atticus and the manuscript were gone.