Hot Desk: A Novel - 21

After her father died of a heart attack when she was eleven, Jane refused to go back to church, but she still remembered the relief she had felt during confession when the priest assigned penances that eased the knot of self-condemnation for her childish sins. Since Rose had returned from Paris, Jane had been unable to tell her what had happened with Teddy. She knew she would, she knew she had to, but with each passing week, the whole encounter seemed more unreal, until she almost didn’t believe it. Only the leaden combination of guilt and shame that settled deeper and deeper reminded her that something had come between her and Rose. What that “something” was faded like a strange dream.

Only a few days after the freak blizzard, Teddy won the Pulitzer Prize in fiction for The Coldest War. That was thrilling for everyone, of course, but Jane and Rose had also celebrated Sylvia Plath’s posthumous win for poetry by reading Ariel to each other by candlelight. It was one of the few nights Jane had stayed uptown with Rose; instead, she had been spending more time in her East Village apartment with the excuse that she was using it as a studio for writing. She sat at the kitchen table gazing between the bathtub and the blank page. She had written nothing.

Rose was coming downtown to meet her at the Cupping Room Cafe on West Broadway for brunch. Jane arrived first and ordered Rose a cappuccino and herself a black coffee. She was determined to tell Rose, to clear the air, to do her penance. At the same time, Jane wondered if the incident—which, much as she tried, had not shaped itself into a funny story—might be better completely buried. Only two people knew, and neither would tell. Jane was good at keeping quiet. Teddy was busy, his star brighter than ever after the Pulitzer: The New York Times had just run a front-page Arts and Leisure article that anointed him a true literary lion. Everyone had chipped in to buy a big stuffed lion from FAO Schwarz, and he had appeared truly moved when Ellen presented it to him. Jane could live with the secret if it meant that Rose would never know. There she was now, in her bright oversize sweater (Drew called it “jelly bean” colors, and only Rose could pull it off) over striped tights and riding boots. Everyone turned as she came in, even the man at the end of the bar with spiky blond hair, who Jane was almost positive was Rod Stewart. Jane’s heart swelled as her friend moved toward her, smiling, undistracted by the murmurs and stares. She would never tell.

“I’m so glad you sat at the bar,” Rose exclaimed, hugging Jane. “Did you order me the chocolate chip pancakes?”

“Not yet,” Jane answered. “But here is your coffee, Your Highness.”

“Oh, I love you!” Rose enthused, taking a sip and leaning in close. “Is that person who looks like my aunt Helen with frosted hair and the plaid scarf Rod Stewart?” she whispered loudly into Jane’s ear.

“Shhhhhh! You’re the worst!” Jane started laughing, pushing Rose away. “Your hair is tickling me!”

“Oh, so you can still laugh?” Rose, teasing, picked up the menu as if she didn’t know it by heart.

Jane sobered immediately. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, c’mon, Jane, you know.” Rose looked at her searchingly. “You don’t stay over. You don’t seem happy. You’ve been weird ever since I got back from Paris.”

“What? What do you mean?” Jane couldn’t help her defensive response. Rose had complained about Jane’s not staying with her at the co-op, but she had never been this direct.

“Don’t insult me,” Rose said seriously. “It’s me, Jane.”

Jane flushed. “I’m not. I mean, I’m sorry.”

Rose dropped the menu and took Jane’s hand. “I have to ask you something.” Jane’s heart sank, but at the same time the possibility of coming clean fluttered in her stomach. “And you have to promise to tell me the truth, okay? This is really hard. But I don’t want you to protect me, okay?” Rose pressed her forehead against Jane’s, and they locked eyes. “Do you promise?”

“Yes,” Jane whispered. It wouldn’t be the end of the world. Rose would forgive her and everything would go back to the way it had been before.

“Did… did something happen with my dad? Did he try anything? Did he do something? To you?” Each word sounded as though Rose had wrenched it from darkness. “When I was gone?”

Jane drew back, stung. “No! Rose, no!” She watched Rose’s face, a battle playing out between suspicion and hope. “I promise,” she added.

Rose let out a long breath and relaxed her shoulders. “Okay. Okay. I believe you.” She brightened and flagged down the bartender. “Chocolate chip pancakes, side of bacon, eggs Benedict with fruit salad instead of home fries. Did I get it right?”

“Yes, of course,” Jane said. “English muffin extra-toasted.” The black coffee churned in her stomach. Her mind was whirring, still trying to process what had just happened. She wanted to claw back the chance she had to confess, to make things right. She had been so close that the words were still in her mouth, the relief almost tangible.

“Rose…” she began.

“Jane…” Rose teased, all smiles now. Jane steeled herself. What had happened with Teddy wasn’t as bad as what Rose had imagined, was it? She knew Rose liked Teddy, but Jane would never be an impediment to that. Everyone loved Teddy, but Rose was Rose. The bitter coffee was rising in her throat, but she could see the way forward. She would find the words. The best words in the best order. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Rose blurted out, “Oh, I keep forgetting to give this to you!” and searched her bag, pulling out a book. “I bought this for you in Paris at the Bouquinistes—you know, those booksellers along the Seine? It’s our favorite book! In French! For you to practice…” She handed Jane Marilynne Robinson’s Housekeeping , the eerie, remarkable novel that had gripped Jane when she’d first read it. Rose was the only other person she knew that had read it and, of course, had felt its gorgeous chill in her bones too. La maison dans la dérive . “It means ‘The House in the Drift,’ ” Rose explained. “Kind of perfect, right?” Jane looked at the book in despair. She would let go of the truth if it meant she could keep Rose close, even for one more day. She swallowed it all back down.

“Drew!” Rose exclaimed. “There he is! I invited him to join us: he was at Paco’s last night, and I have news!”

Drew, in sunglasses with his jacket collar turned up, flopped on the bar chair next to Rose. “I’m tragically hungover! I need a Bloody Mary immediately! I need it intravenously!” he proclaimed.

“Oh my god, you are so dramatic.” Rose smiled at the bartender who turned away from Rod Stewart and hurried over. “Jane? Bloody?”

“No, thanks,” Jane said.

“Why is Jane cranky?” Drew pulled his sunglasses down his nose and looked over them at Jane.

“I don’t know!” Rose ordered two drinks. “I’m trying to get it out of her!”

“I’m fine!” Jane insisted. “How’s Paco?”

“Not great.” Drew took his sunglasses off. “Jermaine is really sick. The nurse told Paco it’s like a gay cancer or something.”

“What does that even mean?” Rose put her hand on Drew’s arm.

“I don’t know. They’re starting a Gay Men’s Health Crisis here to raise some money and figure out what’s going on. They threw a beach party last night.” He took a long sip of his drink. “Hence the hangover.”

“I’m sure they’ll figure it out,” Jane said anxiously. She couldn’t bear it when Drew was sad.

“I hope you’re right.” Drew smiled reassuringly at Jane as if he could read her thoughts. “Anyway, Rose, what’s your big news? Why did I have to drag my ass off a comfortable couch and come all the way over here to watch you eat dessert for breakfast?” Rose was drenching her chocolate chip pancakes in syrup.

“Sooo,” Rose drawled. “Guess who called me? To ask me out to dinner? For a real date!”

“Mick Jagger?” Drew guessed. He leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, “I only said that to make Rod jealous. That’s Rod Stewart, right? Kind of sexy even though he looks like my aunt Jang-mi.”

Rose and Jane burst out laughing. “Not even close,” Rose said. “Better.”

“Better than Jagger,” Drew mused. “Your guess, Jane.”

Jane knew. Of course, she knew. “Paul Newman?”

Drew scoffed. “What is your obsession with Paul Newman? He’s old!”

“Jagger is no spring chicken,” Jane argued. She wanted to stall Rose.

“What do you both have against older men?” Rose speared a strawberry off Jane’s plate and ate it. “Fine, I’ll tell you. Teddy!”

“Finally!” Drew cheered. “I knew it! Who could resist you? Tell us everything!”

“Tell us everything,” Jane repeated. It wasn’t completely unexpected, was it? Rose and Teddy had been flirting, right? But still. A phone call? A date? Was he even officially divorced from Clara? Jane’s mouth was suddenly so dry, she couldn’t swallow. This made it real. Now Jane could never tell Rose.

“He’s taking me to Lutèce. He wants to go somewhere really special, not like Elaine’s or the Odeon. He said he’s been thinking about me ever since we had that lunch where we went over my edits on his work. He said not even Maury Kantor sees what he’s trying to do. Not like I did.” Rose was so shyly pleased that her skin was almost translucent.

“You are the best editor,” Jane said honestly. Her eggs Benedict looked disgusting.

“I’m so happy!” Rose sang. “Okay, I’m going to the bathroom, and when I come back, we’ll plan my outfit for the date!” She slipped off her chair and walked away.

“Jane.” Drew leaned across the empty space between them. “Two things. Quickly. One, I know why you’re upset.”

“You do?” Jane leaned toward Drew.

“Yes. Because Teddy hasn’t said anything about your story, right? It’s been months, and he took Rose out and he arranged the Keith Haring visit. He’s had your story the whole time and hasn’t said shit. It’s not cool.”

“I… I, well…” Jane thought furiously about how to respond. “I guess it does bother me,” she relented, and with those words, her hope drained away. Once she omitted the truth, that looming event, she had to lie and lie. She was an idiot for thinking she could bury it and go on as if nothing had happened.

“Listen,” Drew said earnestly. “You should ask Rose to mention it to Teddy. I mean, it’s pretty obvious that he’s crazy about her. And now that they’re going out, it makes sense, right? He’ll do whatever she wants.”

“No!” Jane couldn’t bear it. With every word, Drew was drifting further away. Rose was drifting further away.

Drew flinched. “You don’t have to yell,” he said. “Calm down! I think it’s a good idea.”

“I’m sorry.” Jane pushed the eggs around her plate, trying to stop the tears. “Please don’t mention it to her. Just don’t, okay?”

“I won’t, I won’t. I’m sorry I snapped. I’m just very fragile right now.” Drew sighed. “Too-many-piña-coladas fragile.”

“What else were you going to say?”

“Okay, you know how Paco is still friendly with Clara? Or at least he doesn’t shun her like everyone else?”

Drew had mentioned before that Clara still confided in Paco and that they had spent a lot of time together before her exile to London. “Yes?”

“Clara is pregnant! And she refuses to do anything about it even though Teddy is trying to divorce her.”

“What?” Jane hadn’t thought of Clara in months. “Does Rose know?”

“No! I was going to tell you both today, but with her big news I don’t think I should, right?”

“No, don’t ruin it for her,” Jane agreed.

“She’ll find out soon enough. Unless Clara gets smart. Even Paco is done with her. Why would she have a kid with someone who doesn’t want to be with her?”

“Poor Rose,” Jane said. She slipped the book into her purse. She wanted to protect Rose no matter what.

“Yeah, it makes it messy for everyone.” Drew finished his Bloody Mary and took the celery stalk out of Rose’s. “Here she comes!” Jane looked up to see Rose at the other end of the room, beaming at them. “Jane.” Drew touched her arm. She turned to him. “You’re a great writer. You’re the real writer, you know? Let her have this.”

“What do you mean?” Jane stiffened.

“Jane,” Drew said gently, which made it worse. “We all love Teddy. But you don’t need Teddy. You have me and Rose. You have your writing. I’m not saying Rose needs him, but they make sense, right? Rose and Teddy.”

Jane didn’t say anything, but she managed a small smile. It was the least she could do for him. Relieved, Drew sat back to make room for Rose. “It’s going to be great,” he promised. “You’ll see.”

In the end, it was Ellen who arranged it all. “Teddy told me to keep an eye on you,” she said gruffly, waiting for Jane when she came out of the bathroom at the office, pale and shaky from throwing up. She gave Jane the number of a Planned Parenthood clinic. She called Shirley the bookkeeper and handed Jane a fat envelope of cash, calling it a bonus for a job well done. She told Jane to be a “smart girl.” She told Jane that there was a job for her at the East River Review if she wanted to come back as long as “everything was taken care of.” She told her that Parker would write her a recommendation if she needed one—that even she, Ellen, would write her one. That she would say Jane had a great eye. Teddy would be happy to call his dear friend at the Haverford Review if she wanted to work there. She even gave Jane an advance copy of the spring issue and an East River Review tote bag filled with all the other issues Jane had worked on.

Drew thought she was jealous. Rose and Teddy were affectionate: Rose delirious with happiness, Teddy unctuous and solicitous of her. There were photos of the two of them in the National Enquirer and the Post , Teddy shielding his face, Rose radiant. When Jane first told Rose she was going back to Philadelphia, Rose wept. She begged Jane to stay; she gave Jane Polaroids and her silver necklace to remember her by but at the same time refused to believe that Jane would leave. Jane, numb, stayed calm and repeated obvious lies about having to help her mother in the store, about coming back after the summer. The last time she saw Rose, when she was saying her official goodbyes at the office, Rose was cool, distant. Her polite remoteness hurt Jane more than the tears because Rose’s withdrawal gave Jane a glimpse of her future, bleak and Rose-less. Drew stayed upstairs; he was taking it all personally. Teddy had gone to London to end things with Clara for good this time. Deedle patted her on the ass. Parker got a little emotional. Jonathan was on the phone. Ellen walked her out the blue door and hugged her quickly, reeking of cigarettes.

Jane quit her job at the Apple on Madison. She broke her lease on the East Village apartment. She left The Coldest War on the kitchen table, with its inscription, “To Jane, who has ‘it.’ —Best, EDA.” When she bought a New York Times from the kiosk near the subway, the old woman, whose name, Jane had learned, was Haleema, insisted again on giving her a blueberry muffin. Then Jane cried. She cried on the subway, not trying to stop, not caring who stared and who looked away, and she cried as she carried her tote bag and two heavy duffel bags all the way to Penn Station.

By the time Jane was aboard Amtrak, her tears had dried. As the train lurched in the dark tunnel out of the station, she looked coldly at her reflection in the window. It was only one year of her life. All of that in one year. One year was nothing. Nothing. She had filled five notebooks. The train emerged into the bright May sunshine. New York City was behind her now, literally. It was hardly real, she thought, hardening her heart. Her broken heart.