Hot Desk: A Novel - 24

Jane had seen Rose, once, a few years after she left New York City. Her mother had given Ellen the phone number of Jane and Sam’s rented house in West Philadelphia. Jane was working in the publications department at UPenn, where she had met Sam, in his first year as a history professor. Ellen had called to tell her about Drew. After Jane hung up the phone, she hardly knew what to do with herself. Pacing the kitchen, she needed to get outside, to walk. So much of what she had tried to forget but had not forgotten came spilling over the barriers she had erected. She had read about the wedding in The New York Times . (Reading it daily was a habit she had kept up since moving home; this was, of course, before the twins.) The black-and-white photograph of Rose and Teddy made them seem like impossibly beautiful strangers from another era. Jane processed the details about the custom Carolina Herrera dress, an intimate reception at Maxwell’s Plum. She had steeled herself against the loss, and only when the paper trembled did she realize her hand was shaking.

When she was very young, she found a cat in the small park a few blocks from her house and carried it, unresisting, home. After feeding it scraps against her mother’s wishes, Jane was distraught when it disappeared. Her father had told her that sick animals sometimes ran off so that they could die alone. Leaving New York, leaving the East River Review —leaving Drew and Rose—Jane finally understood that cat’s instinct not to expose its hidden, fatal wounds. When she remembered her last month in New York City, Jane saw herself as that feral cat. Even when staying might have provided a cure, her urge to flee had been too powerful.

She hadn’t been back to the city, but Jane couldn’t bear to miss what Ellen had called a “celebration of life” for Drew. Apparently, there had been a service at his parents’ Korean church in Queens, but this was for his friends. In her head, Jane replayed the phone calls she had had with Drew since she’d returned to Philadelphia. At first, he called as a sort of intermediary for Rose. He phoned next to tell her that Paco’s boyfriend Jermaine had died, that another Cisneros story had been published, that Rose and Teddy had gone to Lake Como. In the last phone call, over a year earlier, Drew mentioned that he still expected her to come back—that, like him (he had been made an assistant art editor), she could officially join the East River Review masthead. But he had been preoccupied as well: other men he knew were sick; he had met Jasper Johns; Deedle’s long-suffering wife, Marion, had left him for a woman. Drew had stopped asking if Jane wanted him to give a message to Rose.

The memorial was at a stone church in the West Village, one with a walled garden accessible to the street. It was drizzling. Jane couldn’t bring herself to go inside. She had wanted to arrive early or late; either way, she planned to see Rose before Rose saw her. Her heart was skipping as if she were meeting a lover or having a heart attack; she remembered pressing her hand uselessly against her chest to calm it. Finally, she perched on one end of a bench under a broad tree where she could watch people arriving, a small black umbrella angled to hide her face. There was a steady stream of attendants ranging from men dressed in sparkly hats and high heels to Parker and Jonathan, hunched in overcoats. Was there a chance Rose wouldn’t come? Had Jane missed her in the crowd? Was she inside already? Jane remembered thinking she could just slip in next to Rose as if the years had collapsed, as if the rented house in Philadelphia and gentle Sam were the dream and she was waking in the cool mist of her New York City life.

A church official had waited for stragglers, then closed the heavy doors. Not long after, as Jane tried to will herself to move, a black car pulled up outside the iron gates to discharge Rose and Teddy. Jane shrank back but they never looked her way. In all her imaginary reunions with Rose, Jane had somehow forgotten to factor in Teddy. But there he was, more imposing than ever, his handsome face serious as a statue. Rose looked (Jane remembered the word that stuck in her head) like an adult. She was wearing a long black belted coat and shiny boots. It was as if Rose had become even more glamorous, had matured into her role as the wife of a famous man, while Jane had somehow remained as she was that first day at the East River Review , awkward but eager to open herself up to these amazing new friends. Had she believed that Rose and Drew would stay the same? Drew was gone. Rose was moving far ahead. Jane caught only a glimpse as Rose sagged against Teddy and he gathered her under his arm, murmuring over her bent head. They moved together like one graceful dark animal toward the doors that opened as if someone had been waiting for their arrival.

Jane knew she would leave before Rose came out. She stared miserably at the church’s stone facade. Rose and Teddy, as Drew had said, made sense. Once again, Jane could see no way back into the world she had so abruptly abandoned—one that, she realized while sitting in that garden, she missed with an overwhelming ache. One that was already irrevocably changed. She unclenched her hands and examined the crescents cut into her palms. Without her noticing, a small woman had slipped onto the other end of the bench. She was wearing a clear plastic rain bonnet tied over her hair, and she sat straight backed, her feet hardly touching the ground. Because of that, she seemed childlike, but Jane sneaked a glance and saw that she was older and that she had Drew’s sharp cheekbones. All of Jane’s agonizing about Rose evaporated in her certainty that this woman was Drew’s mother.

“I’m sorry,” Jane said, but the woman kept gazing ahead, as Jane had done before, training her eyes on the church. Had she not heard? Did she not understand? Jane dug in her bag and retrieved a handful of Polaroids. The faded images were a little distorted. What had she been thinking when she brought them from Philadelphia? That she and Rose would look at them together; that they would prove that Jane had some claim on Drew even though she had left him? Jane continued, “I was his friend.” She placed the photos on the bench next to the woman, who didn’t glance down at them but pulled a bedraggled tissue out of her raincoat pocket and held it delicately to her nose. The drizzle had become a soft rain. “Please take my umbrella.” Jane held it out, but the woman made no move toward it. After a few minutes, Jane propped the opened umbrella carefully over the photos. In one of them Drew was striking a pose while Jane was moving toward the camera, her mouth open, talking or laughing. The church bells began to ring. Jane stood up. “I’m sorry,” she said again, helplessly. She didn’t remember anything else: how she got to the station, the train back to Philadelphia, what she told Sam, nothing. But she remembered the plangent bells and the woman waiting silently in the rain as if any minute the church doors would open to reveal her son, his mischievous arched eyebrows and his perfect swoop of hair.

“Mom!” Rebecca’s voice startled Jane out of her memory. She was sitting on a love seat in the sun porch overlooking the ocean. There was almost no evidence of last night’s party: an army of people had already broken down tables, folded up chairs, and spirited away the leftovers. Jane had stayed up late talking to Rose, but even though she had a large bed to herself, she had not been able to fall back asleep when she woke at 6 a.m.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” Jane took in her daughter’s wild hair, sweatpants, and oversize gray T-shirt. “You’re up early.” She patted the space beside her. “Come sit for a minute.”

“Don’t worry, I’m going back to bed,” Rebecca claimed. “I’m just looking for something to eat first.” She flopped onto the love seat, her legs curled up next to Jane. “Are you crying? Are you okay?”

Jane held one of Rebecca’s bare feet. It was chilled, and her toenails were painted an iridescent blue. “I am crying,” she answered. “But I’m okay.” She cupped her fingers to warm her daughter’s foot.

“It must be hard to be in his house,” Rebecca asserted. She wiggled her other foot under Jane’s hip. “You’re really brave.”

Jane, surprised, scanned the light-filled room, the tasteful neutral linens and soft cashmeres, the art books on wicker tables, the masses of blue hydrangeas. She saw nothing but Rose. “It’s not hard to be here,” she promised. “It’s beautiful here. Rose has made it beautiful.”

“True,” Rebecca agreed. “Honestly, though, with this view, you’d have to try really hard to screw it up. But that’s not what I meant.”

Jane squeezed Rebecca’s foot. “I know what you meant.”

“You have a lot to process, Mom,” her daughter announced. “It’s all right to be upset. Or angry. I would be angry. I am angry for you!”

Jane had read Teddy’s book with a mixture of shock and revulsion. She had laughed out loud in disbelief, had cringed with embarrassment for herself, for him. There were times that he had managed brilliant sentences, whole paragraphs that sang. But in his arrogant assurance that he could speak for her, he had only succeeded in creating a distant reshaping that she hardly recognized. Had she felt anger? Not quite. It was more, Jane thought, a desire to counter his narrative with her own, to find her own best words. Jane saw that Teddy’s version, even steeped as it was in delusion and self-aggrandizement, had also recognized her power as a writer. He had tried to take something from her; he had tried to give something back. “It is a lot to process” was all she said to Rebecca. Her beautiful daughter prodded her with chilly feet, so self-assured and bossy, so confident that she understood everything.

“I think it’s amazing that you and Rose are writing together.” Rebecca yawned. “It’s going to be so good.”

“And you’re sure you don’t want to be the editor?” Jane couldn’t help herself.

“Mom! We already talked about this. That’s not how it works, anyway. Haven’t you heard of the professional code of ethics?”

Jane very much doubted that Rebecca had spent any time perusing a professional code of ethics, but it was probably true that having her daughter edit this book—if indeed it turned into a book—was not a good idea. And she did trust Ben Heath, who so far had guided her and Rose with a reassuring mix of enthusiasm and professionalism. That first day back in the town house, after she had read Making the Sun Run , she and Rose had decided to write their own version; later when Ben came to them with the same idea, they took it as an auspicious sign. “Well, the whole project has been exciting so far, no matter what happens. And you are a talented editor.”

“You keep saying that! I know you think it’s a bad idea that I try something new.” Rebecca, agitated, pulled her feet out from under Jane.

Rebecca was a talented editor. Saying it didn’t mean that Jane was harping on her baffling notion that she might leave Avenue Publishing just as she was finding real success. In their phone calls since Jane had arrived in Southampton, they had been making progress toward what Rebecca had wanted: that they talk like adults. Jane told Rebecca more about what had happened with Teddy, with Rose. She had talked haltingly, then more easily, about the novel she was working on. Rebecca had confided that she was thinking of leaving her job at Avenue. Jane was trying hard not to react negatively to what sounded, frankly, like a dubious and difficult new venture. She did understand why Rebecca wasn’t thrilled about handling Teddy’s estate. She wanted to be supportive. Rebecca was young enough to take risks, old enough to make her own decisions. Jane also believed in Stella, could see how the two of them brought out the best in each other, fiercely prioritized their friendship, had always balanced each other.

Looking backward was dangerous for Jane, even as she and Rose pored over the journals and read each other’s letters, as they compared notes on their own memories. She tried not to dwell on what leaving had cost her; Teddy loomed so large that she couldn’t imagine how she and Rose could have ever made their way out from under him even if she had stayed. Still, to have had a friend like Rose… Jane gave her head a single sharp shake. Not everyone got a second chance. She would seize it.

“Are you mad that I’m thinking about leaving Avenue? I know you don’t understand social media, but, trust me, I’m good at it.”

Jane smiled. “I know you are. I’m the one who doesn’t get it! And I do trust that you’re passionate about this, and I believe that you and Stella are a great team.” And if the whole thing turned out to be a disaster, Jane would be there for Rebecca, would try not to give a whiff of I told you so . “I’m sure you’ve saved a lot of money by living with Mimi.”

“Are you saying I should move out?” Rebecca sprang up from the love seat. My lord, she was hotheaded sometimes.

“Rebecca,” Jane said, keeping her tone calm. “You’ll be fine. One big decision at a time. Focus on this new venture, then you can worry about finding your own place or anything else that comes along. You don’t need any distractions.”

“Okay, but just so you know…” Rebecca was suddenly blushing furiously. “Um. So. Ben stayed here last night.”

“Ben Heath?” Jane peered closely at her daughter. Obviously, Ben Heath. Ah. The gray T-shirt hanging to her knees. Her tangled hair.

“Do you think Rose will be mad?” Rebecca asked anxiously. “I mean, was it rude?” She pressed the back of her hand to cool her red cheek in a gesture that Jane recognized as one of her own.

“I recall he was invited, so no. And this house is certainly big enough for privacy, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Ugh! Mom!” Rebecca put both her hands over her face, but she couldn’t hide her joy. Oh, she was so young! Jane stood up and gave her daughter a quick hug.

“I’m happy for you,” she said.

Rebecca, her face still aflame, hugged Jane back, then moved away. “Do you think it’s all right if I try to find us something to eat?”

“Of course! I know they packed away so much food from last night. And Rose has plenty of breakfast things. Help yourself.” Jane couldn’t resist adding, “I’m sure you need your strength.”

“Mom!” Rebecca fled, but not before Jane could enjoy the mix of chagrin and happiness in her expression.

She picked up her phone from the side table to call Sam, moving to look out the windows at the ocean, still tinted pink from sunrise. “Good morning, my love,” he answered. There were clicks and whirs in the background, and she knew he was navigating the espresso machine, the only technology he had mastered in their many years together. “How is it in Great Gatsby country?”

“So beautiful,” she answered, watching as birds skittered across the sand, darting in and out of the waves. One of the East River Review covers came loose from where it was strung and blew into the pool.

“Are you happy to be there?”

“Yes. Very happy.” Jane understood that Sam didn’t require a rundown. He needed to know that she was fine but had no interest in a detailed description of the party. “I think Rebecca has met someone special.”

“Has she?” Sam scraped a spoon against what she knew was a yogurt container.

“Yes. The young editor I told you about. Ben Heath?”

“Mmmmmm…” Sam, she imagined, was nodding his head, almost certainly having no clear recollection of her telling him about Ben Heath.

“Did we get the bill from the landscaping company yet?”

“I believe so.”

“Just put it in the basket, all right? I need to call them about the azaleas.”

“When will you be home?” Sam asked, then his attention shifted to Fergus. “Who’s a good old boy?” he murmured kindly.

“You are, my love,” Jane replied. “I think next week.”

“Ethan and Emma are picking me up for the barbecue at Andrew and Gabrielle’s on Monday. Early, so I’ll get some time with the boys.”

“Lucky you!” Jane said. “Don’t forget to bring that little red shirt they left. It’s clean and folded on the dryer.” She knew that it would still be there when she got home.

“We’ll miss you,” Sam said, a little wistfully. It was as much as he would offer over the phone about this new development in their lives, this rush of memories and revelations, the trips to New York, Jane’s tears and joy.

“Give my love to everyone, of course.” Jane imagined that Sam too was gazing out a window, the one over the kitchen sink, its sill crowded with plants, little glass vases, a jar of shells. He would see, if he noticed, the pink blooms of the plum tree they had planted when Rebecca was born.

“I’ll see you next week,” Sam said. He was ready to start the day now, to head out for a long walk with Fergus.

“Talk to you tonight.” Jane resisted reminding him to wear a sweater. She ended the call and watched another East River Review cover become unfastened in the wind and whirl across the lawn. She should go out to gather them up before the string broke.

“Here you are.” Rose’s voice lilted behind her, and Jane turned to see her friend crossing the room with a tray that held two cups and a silver pot of coffee.

“Here I am.” Jane smiled and moved toward Rose. They had all day ahead of them. There was so much to say.