Hot Desk: A Novel - 23

The helicopter to the Hamptons was a tooth-rattling ride that not even noise-canceling headphones improved. Ben’s stomach had dipped with the copter as it rumbled above the gleaming expanse of Atlantic Ocean and the dense hedgerows and mansions lining the beaches below. At least it was only forty-five minutes. There was an overflow of traffic, security, and beautiful people outside the giant shingled estate that Atticus called “Oceaan House with two a ’s like the Dutch” so that Ben wouldn’t think it was a typo in the name chiseled into a high stone wall. Like one of the British royals, Atticus had their driver from the heliport sneak down a guarded private road around the side of Oceaan House, where they disembarked amid a caravan of catering, band, and florist vans. They made their way in through the back, dodging a stream of staff being directed by a slim, calm man in a headset.

“The party is out back on the porches, lawn, and pool deck.” Atticus snatched a martini from one of the silver trays. “Chill,” he said when he got a look at Ben’s face. “It’s for you.”

Ben took the drink so that Atticus wouldn’t be tempted. The last thing either of them needed was to get drunk. He wanted to see Rebecca, so best he be sober. He put the martini back on another tray. Atticus kept leading Ben through a maze of hallways until they burst into a tremendous room with double-height ceilings and a wall of windows looking out onto the expanse of grounds below and the ocean beyond. The room was empty of people, but Ben could see a crowd milling outside around the dark blue pool and spilling over a series of decks and boardwalks that led to the beach. “If it gets too much for you, I give you permission to take refuge inside,” Atticus said over his shoulder. “This place is crawling with every type of literary sycophant. The Lion would have loved it.”

Ben moved next to Atticus by the massive windows. The sun was setting and everything was tinged with gold. “My mom read a scientific study once that claimed just looking at water for a few minutes a day calms you down, lowers your heart rate.”

“Are you saying that between the East River and here, I should never have turned to stimulants? Or are you saying that obviously I would have turned to stimulants?”

“My mom bought us a fish tank,” Ben said.

“I’ll be looking at the Pacific Ocean this time tomorrow.” Atticus pulled out a cigarette and tapped it against his wrist.

“Rose will fucking kill you if you smoke in here,” a voice came from behind them. “I see you’ve come as Sinatra.”

Atticus smiled in a way that made Ben wonder if he had ever seen him smile before. “Wilson! I see you’ve come as Sonny without Cher.”

Ben turned to see a woman in baggy jeans and a bowling shirt. “Ben, this is Billie Wilson, townie. The shirt is not ironic.”

“Nice to meet you, Ben. Adams, have you packed?” Ben deduced that this was the old friend making sure that Atticus got on the plane to rehab. He said hello. Billie marched up and grabbed Atticus’s face, roughly turning it from side to side. “Look at you, getting a head start on sober. I love to see it.”

Atticus shrugged her off. “Billie is immune to my charms,” he told Ben.

“That’s right,” she agreed. “I know all his unsexy secrets.”

“Also, you’re gay,” Atticus reminded her.

“That’s not why I’m immune to your dubious charms,” Billie corrected him. “For instance, I can see that your young friend Ben here is one good-looking man. While you’re still giving douchebag vibes. C’mon, let’s get you packed while I chaperone your ass. You don’t want to miss all the suck-ups out there. I think I saw Charles Dickens.”

“If it’s not Stephen King, Billie doesn’t give a fuck,” Atticus said admiringly. “Well, gotta go smoke this ciggie out my bedroom window like the old days. See you for the speeches. I hear DeLillo is going to make nice.”

When Atticus and Billie were gone, Ben scanned the crowd, looking for Rebecca. There was a black-and-white French New Wave film projected on the side of one of the outbuildings. Ben identified it as Jules and Jim thanks to repeated exposure while Ava was taking what she insisted on referring to as “cinema” classes. He could hear music muffled by the thick glass: he thought it was a Beatles song. There were long tables piled with food (he hadn’t eaten since Mrs. Singh’s vegan muffin) and flowers. There were East River Review covers strung in a colorful mass above everyone’s heads. There was no sign of Rebecca Blume.

“Hello, Ben.” Rose had slipped next to him. “I’m so glad you came.”

It occurred to Ben that he was once again in one of Rose’s private rooms without an invitation from her. “Atticus was right here…” he began. Jane appeared on the other side of him.

“I love how so many of the young people dressed in costume,” Rose continued. “Deflates some of the pomposity, don’t you think?”

In his jacket pocket Ben fingered the round glasses that Howie had pressed on him. Since Howie had missed a meeting in order to procure them, Ben had agreed he would at least consider it. He pulled them out and put them on. “John Lennon,” he announced. A feeble gesture, but momentous for him. He was rewarded with a smile from Rose.

“Look at all the old men who broke out their seersucker suits for the Memorial Day weekend,” Jane said, clearly less impressed with Ben’s effort. “That one’s smoking a pipe.”

“Ah, Maury Kantor. I can’t believe he made it.”

“I can’t believe he’s still alive!” Jane laughed.

Ben was very aware of Jane as Rebecca’s mother. Did she know where Rebecca was or even if she was there at all?

“We’ve made so much progress,” Rose announced. “Even since this morning. Talking and writing!” She leaned forward and smiled at Jane. “Even more than we’ve sent to you.”

“That’s great,” Ben said. “I know Trixie Carter is excited to meet with you both. You’ll be in great hands with her.”

“We can’t thank you enough.” Rose patted Ben on the arm. “It’s been a tonic.”

“And a few gin and tonics,” Jane added. They both laughed.

“It would be wonderful to have you as the official editor,” Rose said generously. “Though I agree that we should go the more conventional route and work with an agent first. But we certainly won’t forget your enthusiasm.”

“I would love that. Whatever agent you decide to go with, Trixie or someone else, I’m planning to push hard at Hawk Mills so we end up with it. Once it’s finished, of course. No pressure.”

“Trixie comes highly recommended from more than one source,” Jane said. “My daughter, Rebecca—you met her at the town house—is a close friend of hers.”

Ben felt his face redden. He gazed fixedly out the window at the last blaze of sunset on the water. He couldn’t even hear her name without consequences.

“Well, I suppose I should mingle,” Rose sighed. “There’s a whole run of show I’ve been given by the East River Review staff and a lovely young man who’s the party planner.”

“He reminds me a little of…” Jane trailed off. Ben heard something break in her voice. He looked at her closely, but she had turned away.

“We had a friend,” Rose told Ben. “Many years ago. He died when he was far too young.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“It was long ago,” Rose said. “It still hurts, of course. But time makes it bearable. Now we have all this. And I have my instructions!”

“Have you thought more about what you want to say?” Jane asked. “I mean, if you decide to speak at all. Which, of course, you know you don’t have to, no matter what that pretentious ass in the hat says.”

“Tom O’Flanagan,” Rose explained to Ben. “ East River Review ’s editor.”

Ben nodded. He didn’t announce that he agreed with Jane’s assessment, but he thought it. “Pretentious ass in the hat” was something Rebecca might say. Which made sense, he guessed. He stole a sideways glance at Jane, who suddenly looked up at him with probing eyes. Did she know he was thinking about her daughter all the time, even at this very second? He knew she couldn’t read his mind, but maybe Rebecca had told her something. What would she have said? She was hardly even returning his texts.

“I have some thoughts,” Rose was saying. “We’ll see.”

“Ben, you’re a millennial,” Jane said. “What do you think about YouTube and TikTok?”

“Actually, I’m Gen Z.”

“Even better. Do you think people can really make a career out of using social media?”

“Well, sure,” Ben said. “Some people make a lot of money with branding and sponsorships. And they can have millions of followers. I know it’s huge for book sales.”

“Hmmmm.” Jane turned back to gaze out the window again. “And I suppose there are people whose jobs are managing and handling all of these digital celebrities?”

“I don’t know that much about it, but I would think so.”

“What a world.” Jane shook her head. “All right, Rose, into the Lion’s den we go.” She took Rose’s arm. “We’ll see you out there.”

“Be sure to get something to eat,” Rose added. “And if you want to spend the night, we certainly have enough room.” Did Ben look hungry again? He was hungry again.

“You can stay in your own wing,” Jane promised. “I do.”

“It will be nice for Atticus to have you here to see him off.” Rose and Jane headed to the French doors that led outside, Rose smiling at the security guard. Ben watched as they descended the wide gray steps flanked by hundreds of candles, their heads bent toward each other. It was getting more crowded, and Ben was determined to find Rebecca and get something to eat. He followed the path Rose and Jane had taken into the still-warm evening air.

After eating numerous deviled eggs and a mound of Swedish meatballs and washing it all down with a Sazerac cocktail, Ben finally caught sight of Rebecca. She was glowing in a white crochet minidress, carrying a wicker basket, and arguing with a handsome man in a white tuxedo with a red rose in the lapel. She was shaking what appeared to be a limp brown cat at the man. Theirs was clearly an intimate relationship. Ben’s heart sank. So it wasn’t just the fact that she was annoyed about his getting involved with the book idea for Jane and Rose. There was someone else. Fuck. Ben put his plate on a table, where it was immediately whisked away. He would walk down to the beach. The band launched into an instrumental version of Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone.” How does it feel? Ben thought. It feels like shit. He would have to walk past Rebecca on his way to the beach, but he could take it. Before he set out, he pocketed the round glasses.

As he got close enough to discern that it wasn’t a brown cat at all, Rebecca suddenly saw him, turned bright red, and stuffed what was apparently a wig into her wicker basket. All of Ben’s plans about casually strolling by evaporated in the scorching heat that shimmered between them. She had to feel it too, right? He came to a halt. Every time he saw her—and, by his count, this was the fifth—she was more startlingly vivid than he remembered.

“Ben Heath!” the handsome man exclaimed. There was a small silver pistol that Ben assumed was a prop in the pocket of his tux. What did it mean that he knew who Ben was? Would Ben have to fight him? Was the gun really a prop? The man offered his hand to Ben, a good sign. “Name’s Bond. James Bond.” Ben shook. “ Goldfinger era. Nineteen sixty-four.”

“This is my friend Gabe.” Rebecca was flustered. “He runs marketing at Avenue.” Gabe was wearing a wide silver ring that could be a wedding ring. Jesus, was Ben now a person who noticed if people were wearing wedding rings? Gabe was clearly a stylish guy. Maybe he was just wearing a cool piece of jewelry. If he was with Rebecca, why would she introduce him as her friend? Why would she have launched herself at him at the bar? They were obviously just friends. He stared at Rebecca. He couldn’t help it. She raised her eyes to his, and his breath caught.

“Well,” Gabe remarked, after an awkward minute, “I’m going to find Tor and have a word with him about this very aggressive harmonica solo. It was a pleasure to meet you, Ben Heath.”

“It was. I mean, nice to meet you too.” Ben dragged his gaze from Rebecca.

“We’ll talk later, kitten.” Gabe plucked a martini, fittingly, from a passing silver tray and left.

“Kitten?”

“Walk with me.” Rebecca turned sharply on her low-heeled boots and began weaving through the crowd without looking back. Was there any chance he wouldn’t do exactly as she wished? He followed her away from everyone to a small hut with a bench facing the beach. She ducked inside, and they were hidden from the party. “Sit, please,” she ordered him.

“Seriously?” He wasn’t Butch, for fuck’s sake.

“I did say ‘please’!” Rebecca argued. Then she added more softly, “It’s just that you’re so tall, okay?”

Ben sat. As Rebecca dropped the wicker basket on the bench, she suddenly grabbed the wig out of it. “Shit!” Next, she retrieved from a napkin two slightly crushed cupcakes with pineapple rings and cherries embedded like flowers in the icing.

“Why are there cupcakes in your… uh… bag?”

“Do you think they’re ruined?” she asked anxiously.

“I volunteer to investigate. As long as the wig didn’t shed.”

Rebecca examined the cupcakes and handed one to him. “Clean.” She took the other one and sat down. They both looked straight ahead at nothing but water, sand, and sky. Even though they weren’t touching, he could feel the vibration between them as they ate in an electrified quiet. Rebecca tossed her cupcake wrapper in the basket and took a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry I was a dick about your being involved in the memoir, okay?”

It wasn’t every day that not one but two people apologized to Ben for being dicks. “I can see how it might have taken you by surprise,” he offered. “And I probably should have mentioned it to you, since it’s your mom and all.”

“No.” Rebecca kept looking forward. “Rose and Jane are excited and inspired. I came out here yesterday and they were showing me all his journals and some of their letters. Then, after I rage texted you this morning, I had a long talk with them. I guess I was a little hard on you. I know your input has been important to them. They really do want to have a ‘conversation’ with the Lion. And now that they have Making the Sun Run back, they can do it on their own terms.”

“I thought they would have torched it.”

“Maybe they’ll have a bonfire ceremony eventually. But, for now, it’s been kind of a touchstone, a way to tell their story in reaction to the Lion’s bullshit version.”

“And do we know if Atticus leaked any more of it? He says he didn’t, but he might not remember.”

“He probably did. I’m sure we’ll be reading about it on BLURB. But nobody can publish it, and people have short attention spans. Avenue will be flooding the market with sanctioned reissues and focusing on getting ahead of the criticism; I mean, we have a lot of ideas about how to amplify women’s voices, as you so self-righteously said.” Ben sneaked a look at Rebecca’s profile. She was half smiling.

“I think I said ‘center.’ But ‘amplify’ works.”

“And while I’m groveling here, you had a point about both/and. I know the Lion wasn’t all terrible. Or maybe he was terrible, but Rose and my mom fell for him. And I’ve read The Coldest War . I get why people might, I don’t know, admire his writing. His earlier writing.”

“People?” Ben could tell this speech was hard for Rebecca, but, much as he appreciated it, he couldn’t help himself. “You mean, like, totally unevolved people?”

“Exactly.” Rebecca elbowed Ben in the side. She was still facing straight ahead, but her tone was light. Honestly, he couldn’t take it anymore. Maybe she had only kissed him at Betty Jack’s because she was drunk. Maybe—and he had started to put this theory together while obsessively going over every detail of the night—she had only kissed him because he was reading Virginia Woolf. Either way, he had to know if she would be interested in kissing him again. He took a deep breath. “Also,” Rebecca continued before he could speak, “I, uh, I find you really distracting.”

“ Distracting ? In what way distracting?”

“As in I can’t stop thinking about you. Or thinking about the other night.” Rebecca sounded almost agitated, and he saw color rising on her neck and cheek.

Ben reached over and gently tilted her face toward him. Her green eyes and dark lashes were intense in the furious blush of her heart-shaped face. “I can’t stop thinking about you either. If that helps.”

“It helps,” she whispered.

Ben leaned down and Rebecca met him halfway. When his mouth covered hers, his body surged toward her. Relief and urgency flooded him at the same time. He wanted to devour her, to stay up all night talking with her, to learn everything about her. But mostly, right now, he wanted no space between them. When her tongue slipped into his mouth, he gathered her closer still.

“Oh my goodness! I beg your pardon!” a tall woman with bright red lipstick and a matching turban exclaimed in a British accent. “I was just searching for somewhere quiet to rehearse, and here I’ve put my foot in it!” She disappeared from view, her voice trailing after her. “Carry on!”

“I think that was Zadie Smith,” Ben said. His hands were still in Rebecca’s hair, cupping her head.

“I know that was Zadie Smith.”

For the first time, Ben noticed that the music had stopped and someone was speaking into a mic. “And that might be DeLillo?”

“I don’t care if we miss DeLillo.” Rebecca pressed her hand against Ben’s chest, where he could feel his heart thudding under her palm. “But we can’t miss Rose.”

“We can’t miss Rose,” he agreed. He didn’t move except to smooth her hair back from her face.

“No, we have to go back.” Rebecca also didn’t move but gripped his shirt.

“Okay, we’re going back now.” Ben dipped his head to kiss her again until they both lost their breath. When they broke apart, he could hear, over the sound of his heart and the surf, a woman’s voice. A woman’s amplified voice.

“Rose!” Rebecca jumped up and adjusted her minidress down over her thighs. A maraschino cherry rolled out from under her. “Fuckety fuck!” she exclaimed. “I knew I shouldn’t have worn white!”

Ben got up, winced, and grabbed her wicker basket to hold strategically in front of him. “I’ll just carry this thing for you, if that’s all right.”

Rebecca laughed. It was the first time he had heard her full-throated laugh. He followed her white dress in the darkening blue. Rose was behind a lectern on a platform near the pool, while above her, on the outbuilding, a series of photos was projected: photos of the Lion reading, looming at his desk, squiring women, accepting an award, riding a bike on the beach with young Atticus. The large crowd had gathered, murmuring, glasses and plates clanking, waiting for Rose to continue speaking. Ben and Rebecca stood near the edge, with her just in front of him. He could smell her hair. Limes and basil.

“And I know that many of you are wondering what our plans are for the East River Review . This is something Teddy and I discussed at length. I’ll be selling the town house, but I assure you that the magazine, with a new, improved, less underground office, will be well provided for.” Here people laughed in relief, and Rose continued. “I’m committed to continuing to support, in all ways, this very special endeavor founded by my husband sixty years ago.” There was a round of enthusiastic applause. Ben could see O’Flanagan in his stupid hat clapping harder than anyone. “Teddy would have been delighted that everyone is here to celebrate the magazine. And, of course, to celebrate him. He did love to be the center of attention. And I so appreciate all of you coming and those speaking in his honor. We’re planning a more formal memorial service at St. John the Divine in about six months. Many of you will be called upon to speak then as well, and I’m grateful to Maury Kantor and PK Publishing for all their hard work.” Rose gave a little wave, and Ben picked Maury Kantor out of the crowd: seersucker suit, pipe, somehow still upright.

“There are many things to be said about Teddy…” Rose paused and sought out Jane, who Ben could see was standing in the front. It was good to be tall. “But I think the best way to remember him is to listen to his own words. I’d like to read an old story, one of my favorites. I know that Teddy loved it too.” Rose shuffled a few papers on the lectern in front of her and put on a pair of reading glasses. Ben realized he was holding his breath. Rose paused, then began to read. As soon as he heard the first paragraph, Ben was transported back to that night at Bread Loaf, the expectant audience, the stars through the barn window. As he listened to Rose’s calm, measured voice, he heard a ghost echo below its surface, the Lion’s words as he had read them, building the meticulous and powerful world of the story. A man, a girl, a horse. He couldn’t help it: he blinked back tears.

Without saying anything, somehow sensing the swell of emotion in him, Rebecca reached back and her hand found Ben’s. She held it until Rose read the last word. She held it while the crowd was silent for a beat, then applauded wildly. She held it while Rose left the lectern and hugged Jane. She held it while Zadie Smith made a few jokes to lighten the mood and described the Lion’s use of metaphor as an inspiration. She held it as they walked back into the house, passing a huge sheet cake decorated with the iconic blue door, nodding to the security guard, who let them pass. She held it even as they said goodbye to Atticus, who shook Ben’s other hand firmly, complained about Billie’s truck, and was led out by Billie. She held it as they made their way up yet another wide, curving staircase, then down a long hallway lined with photographs, bright paintings, and charcoal drawings. She held it when they arrived in the suite of rooms where she was clearly staying (half-unpacked bag, clothes tossed on chairs, an empty kombucha bottle, another pair of boots collapsed in the middle of the rug). There were wraparound windows facing the sea, which he could make out beyond the crowd while the band segued into Marvin Gaye.

“I thought you might want to have a seat,” Rebecca said. Without unclasping his hand, she gestured at the long, low couch under the windows. Very low. Seriously, how many of these things did Rose own?

“We might never be able to get up again,” he pointed out.

“That works for me.” Rebecca smiled up at him, and he drew her in. Everywhere that he was hard, she was soft. Their mouths found each other again as they stumbled toward the couch. It was a long way down, but she landed on top and inhaled sharply as Ben moved her roughly against him.

“Is it too much?” he asked hoarsely.

“No!” Rebecca breathed into his mouth. She tasted like pineapple. “More.” She ran her hands up inside his shirt, her nails scraping his chest. He shivered.

“Is it too much?” she asked, straddling him, her white dress up around her hips.

“No.” Ben felt too big for his body, as if he might burst through his skin into a thousand fragments. “More.” Rebecca pulled her dress over her head, getting stuck for a minute, cursing and laughing as Ben tried to help, more of an abs exercise than he had anticipated. He shed his shirt gracefully in comparison, but it took them a while to yank off his pants, especially since Rebecca kept kissing every new part revealed. Finally, they were both naked. Her skin was luminous in the dark room. Ben had never felt this way before: delirious yet grounded, desperate for her yet able to slow down time. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured as he slid his hand between her legs, and she was warm and wet, her breath coming in quick gasps that stirred him until he thought he might lose his mind. “We don’t have to…” he started to say as she arched above him.

“We do! We do have to!” Rebecca exclaimed.

“I haven’t done this in a long time,” he admitted. “And never like this.”

“What do you mean? Girl on top?”

“No! I mean…” Ben hesitated, but there was nothing he could hide from her. “Feeling like this. About you.”

“Feeling like what?” Rebecca guided him into her and they both stopped moving in the shock of how good it was, how right.

“Crazy. Crazy about you. Your perfect mouth. Your stupid Post-its. Your annoying cactus. Your gorgeous skin. Your beautiful heart. I know you have one.”

Rebecca leaned forward, moving slowly, her hair tickling his chest. “ Your annoying cactus,” she whispered. “ Your stupid Post-its. Your beautiful heart. Ben.”

There was a sudden explosion of bangs from outside and the windows lit up beside Rebecca, outlining her body in blue. The sound reverberated as a stream of silver sparks filled the sky. Their eyes locked and it was too much. It was everything. She was laughing. It was fireworks. Literally.