Hot Desk: A Novel - 6

Ami sent Rebecca to the East End town house in an Uber Black. She had spent most of the last week refamiliarizing herself with the Lion’s body of work (and was surprised to find herself caught up in reading rather than skimming sections of The Coldest War ), trolling for photos of Rose Adams (at first, many glamorous society shots, then a slow fade into intermittent charity galas and award ceremonies with the Lion), and reviewing ideas for keeping the Lion relevant: a collection of essays by and about him that would “speak to each other”; a reprinting of the novels with introductions and commentary by a who’s who of diverse young women writers and critics; an HBO miniseries based on The Coldest War that Rebecca had secretly cast with Alexander Skarsgård.

Stuck in midmorning traffic, Rebecca sent a quick text to Max.

Rebecca:

see you tonight at stella’s dinner!

hope you forgive me for the mead hall

Max:

quite an experience

Rebecca:

was hoping for more ren fest vibe and less wild yeast dissertation

like more busty wenches and fewer man buns

Max:

Rebecca:

are you still hungover?

Max:

brain damaged

Rebecca:

haha I have to get to work—big lunch meeting at east end town house today!

Max:

you’ll do great. SYL

Rebecca wasn’t sure if Max understood what a big deal it was that she was going (by herself!) to meet with Rose Adams. Of course he knew who the Lion was, but his reading taste ran more toward biographies of power brokers. He had been reading the same book about Churchill for the entire duration of their relationship. In his defense, it was about ten thousand pages long. Speaking of boring, Rebecca suddenly remembered that Mrs. Singh had reminded her about next week’s Desk Share meeting. She pulled up the Office Life Inbox on her phone reluctantly while the Uber driver leaned on his horn.

OFFICE LIFE INBOX:

KMarx:

“We reap what we sow. We cannot expect apples when we have sown the seed of the cactus.” —Unknown

Bartleby:

i prefer not to

Anon:

did you ever think every time we swipe our cards they are tracking us

HaileyB:

no one seems to know anything about the free desk? admin? if no one is using it, i’d like to store some belongings in it?

Admin:

Please use assigned lockers for all personal belongings —Admin

AGIRLHASNODESK:

We don’t have an H-shaped bookcase under our desk, but I see that other desks do. Is there a requisition form to fill out for that? It might be helpful to have all the forms in one easily accessible place

paul:

tbh you have to break eggs to make omelet ¯_(ツ)_/¯

JANICESTRONG:

How dp I mute notices ob Blabber

How do I mute notices ob Blabber?

OB

ON ON ON ON ON ON ON ON

Rebecca stopped reading Janice’s breakdown-in-real-time and scrolled back up to KMarx. It was 100 percent not a coincidence that there was another cactus quote, was it? Could KMarx be Ben Heath? Was Ben following up on his annoying message from yesterday, a hot-pink Post-it with her own words—“ What is this abou t ? ”—under a chocolate-covered almond? She had eaten the almond and pondered her next move. And now this apple quote? If anyone had sown the seed of the cactus, it was him! (It was he?) Was he a socialist making commentary on desk sharing? Wouldn’t a socialist prefer desk sharing? Or, Rebecca mused, was he using his screen name as a cover for his true reactionary nature as a redheaded blue blood who pretended to flee the monarchy but was so steeped in its culture he was still one of them? She had gone with “Reach for the stars,” but he was going with “We reap what we sow.” Was he getting a dig in at her for expecting apples? Fine! She expected apples, not a fucking cactus.

KMarx:

“We reap what we sow. We cannot expect apples when we have sown the seed of the cactus.” —Unknown

HOT DESK:

“the revolution is not an apple that falls when it is ripe. you have to make it fall.” —che guevara

Rebecca closed out of the Office Life Inbox with a satisfied smile. She had real work to do.

The East End town house was an impressive six-story gray limestone building with ornate balconies. There was a small sign in the distinctive East River Review font above stone steps leading down to a separate entrance, its deep-blue door the only clue that the literary magazine was alive and well and churning out issues from the basement level. Deposited by the Uber, Rebecca halted, sweating in the afternoon sun, unsure if she was supposed to meet Mrs. Adams at the magazine office or in her home. She refused to call Ami this early in the assignment. Just this morning, Ami had given her marching orders to feel out Mrs. Adams regarding her position on the Lion’s relevance to young women today. Ami had smiled in a quick, tense way and revealed they would need to strategize on how best to introduce him to this new audience. No pressure! Had Rebecca gone into publishing to make the Lion relevant? Ugh. And her mother? Jane had been absolutely ghosting her. “Planning a party for the boys”? Seriously, so busy scouting bouncy castles that she couldn’t be bothered to check in with her daughter? For someone who had called her at work every morning, Jane had been suspiciously absent ever since their unsatisfactory phone call about the internship. As soon as she was through with all her very important work responsibilities, Rebecca was going to get a straight answer.

At that moment, two people came clattering out of the iron gate under the East River Review sign, an older man wearing a fedora who looked vaguely familiar and a young woman toting a satchel stuffed with papers.

“I can’t eat at York Tavern again,” the woman was saying. “They swear it’s oat but it’s always dairy.”

“It’s your lucky day, then.” The man held the gate open for her. “Taco truck Tuesday!”

“Excuse me,” Rebecca said. “I have a meeting with Mrs. Adams. What’s the best way to find her?”

The two stopped and looked Rebecca up and down. “I don’t know if Rose is in the city today,” the man said finally. “She lives in the Hamptons.”

“I have an appointment,” Rebecca said. I’ll bet you’re completely bald under that fedora , she thought uncharitably.

“You can just ring the front bell,” the young woman said. Was she being helpful or snide? Rebecca squinted nervously at the enormous entranceway, guarded by two potted trees. I’m supposed to be here , she reminded herself.

“Great. Thanks!” She turned away, resisting the urge to look back and catch them gawking at her. On the heavy door was (of course) a lion’s head door knocker, a doorbell, and a big brass doorknob in the middle of it all. Rebecca lifted the heavy lion and let it drop with a bang. She pressed the doorbell for good measure. Eventually a beautiful older woman—not the Downton Abbey butler Rebecca half expected—opened the door and ushered Rebecca into a cool, marbled foyer dominated by a curving staircase and museum-size sculptures of naked women. Mrs. Adams—Rebecca recognized her from internet sleuthing—was tall and elegant in a gray fluted skirt, high heels, and white silk blouse. There was a huge arrangement of white hydrangea and pink peonies on an imposing round table.

“You must be Rebecca Blume,” Rose Adams said. “May I take your coat?”

A group FaceTime effort with Stella and Gabe last night had Rebecca dressed in dark, wide-leg, high-waisted trousers, chunky-heeled shiny black boots, a new blouse with shirred cuffs, and a cropped green blazer Stella had found on Poshmark that was “Chanel adjacent” and delivered in the nick of time. “No, thank you!” Rebecca, though desperate to shed the Chanel-adjacent jacket, remembered Gabe’s instructions that it was an essential part of her outfit and would not be tricked out of it. “Thank you, though. It’s so nice to meet you.” Rebecca offered her hot hand to be clasped in Mrs. Adams’s chilled, firm grip.

“Please, call me Rose.” Rose led Rebecca up the graceful stairway and through the arched French doors until they were both standing in a palatial room lined with huge windows looking out onto the East River. There were a number of separate seating areas, including window seats lining the far wall. In the center of the room was a massive pool table where someone had spread papers and left a coffee mug. On every side table there were neat piles of books.

“Let me get a good look at you, Rebecca Blume. Come over by the light.” They moved to the bank of windows and Rebecca looked down at the wide river, where barges and sailboats floated serenely by and all traffic noise was muffled by the insulated glass. Rebecca could see the string of bridges farther downtown. She pulled her attention from the expanse of river and met Rose’s intense gaze. “Your jacket is a lovely color; it brings out the green of your eyes.” Rebecca, flustered and pleased, had just that morning thought the same as she twirled for Gabe over yet another FaceTime consultation. Rose had thick silver hair streaked with light brown and the erect carriage and long limbs of a former model. Rebecca knew that Rose was sixty-five years old but she looked younger, her angular face pale and smooth, her eyes bright with interest as they examined Rebecca. How was Rose so unruffled and cool in her silk blouse while Rebecca’s short-lived victory in hanging on to her jacket had resulted in trapping heat beneath it?

“Thank you. What a beautiful view,” Rebecca said, looking away from Rose, who was still appraising her.

“It is. The house was built in 1869, and Teddy’s parents bought it in the early 1900s.”

Rebecca did some calculations, including one that identified Teddy as the Lion. “How long has the magazine been in the building?”

“Oh, Teddy founded it not long after he graduated. We celebrate its sixtieth this year.”

“That’s right,” Rebecca said. “I read that in the obituary.” She winced. “I’m sorry. Sorry for your loss.” Ugh. Could she be more insensitive? And generic? “Sorry for your loss”? She was off to a great start: sweaty, bumbling, clearly wilting under Rose’s continued (not entirely professional?) scrutiny.

“Thank you.” Rose touched Rebecca briefly on her arm. “He was sick for many years, but of course it’s still a bit of a shock. Teddy was always such a… presence. I appreciate your coming here, Rebecca. Beginning the process of finding a new home for Teddy’s work, handling his estate, meeting you… it gives my days shape and purpose. Thank you.”

“I’m happy to be here, of course.” Rebecca highly doubted that her showing up at the town house had given shape to Rose’s days, but somehow Rose had managed to put her at ease. And thankfully Rose’s gaze had landed elsewhere as she picked up the coffee mug from the pool table.

“The magazine staff often work up here. They always have.” Rose gave the mug a little shake. “Teddy called them the ‘kids.’ No liquid anywhere near the pool table was one of his rules.”

“What a great place to work.” Rebecca imagined herself curled up on the window seat, paisley pillow on her lap, reading, watching the boats go by. No desk sharing for the spoiled staff of the East River Review ! For the first time since their unsatisfactory phone call, Rebecca thought about her mother in this very building. She wondered if Jane had ever been upstairs.

“They come and go using the rear stairway,” Rose explained. “The stairs connect the back room in the office to the second kitchen over there. Former house staff quarters.” She gestured through one of the arched doors. “I found it difficult sometimes, living here. One of the reasons I moved out to Southampton: for privacy.”

Would Rebecca mind if magazine staff sprawled all over her living room? Not if she could have two kitchens, she decided.

“Lorraine!” Rose called unexpectedly, and an old woman in a linen smock came into the room. “Would you be so kind as to bring us our lunch? I have everything ready in the refrigerator. Except the cheese: that’s coming to room temperature on the board. Please bring the trays so we can eat in here.”

Lorraine nodded and gave Rebecca a sympathetic glance. “Unseasonably warm for May today,” she announced. Had she noticed Rebecca’s flushed face? Rebecca would not be sidetracked into a conversation about the weather. She had business to conduct!

“So Ami Ito, the editorial director at Avenue, my boss—I think you spoke to her?” After a tight smile to acknowledge Lorraine, Rebecca launched into her pitch, determined to take control of this meeting. “She has a list of innovative ideas to introduce Edward”—she could not bring herself to call him “Teddy”—“to a new generation of readers. We were thinking, in particular, of young women.”

“Are you a fan of my husband’s work, Rebecca?” Rose asked, while motioning her to sit.

Rebecca sank into the wide, cloudlike couch with the too-late realization that she would need a crane to haul her back up. Rose took a seat on a higher, straight-backed chair opposite Rebecca, who tried to lean forward but was held back by both her high-waisted pants and the width of the seat. There were two choices: surrender to the enveloping down cushions or perch unsteadily on the very edge, waistband cutting off her circulation and elbows resting uncomfortably on her knees. Because this was a business meeting, Rebecca heaved herself forward. “He’s a great writer of sentences,” she answered honestly. “And scenes. And endings. I loved The Coldest War . I know everyone says that, but it’s my favorite. His short stories. The early ones, especially. Brilliant.”

“And do you think it’s possible his work could reach a new audience? As you mentioned, a younger female one? The culture has changed, I’m well aware.” Rose tapped her long, slender fingers against her chin. “Mercifully. And not nearly enough, of course. Though I wonder if the present landscape will be hospitable to Teddy’s particular brand of, shall we say, male energy?”

“That’s exactly the dilemma,” Rebecca said excitedly. “His writing, at its foundation—at the sentence level, as I said—it’s powerful, sinewy. There’s a kind of violence in the language that’s punctuated with moments of almost delicate sensuality, right? I’m thinking of that part in Hoydenish when the girl is poking at the dead deer with the stick and the butterflies explode in this cloud around her. And in The Coldest War , how the domestic scenes are both evocative of myth and almost painfully naturalistic. But you just can’t escape the way the women are portrayed. So many of his female characters are presented as perfect objects to be won or reduced to castrating nags. And their own cluelessness about privilege echoes his…” Rebecca snapped her mouth shut. What was her problem? Ami had certainly not mentioned critiquing the Lion in her meeting prep. But Rose was nodding encouragingly, so Rebecca tried again. “What I mean is that we don’t have to throw out the baby with the bathwater…” What in the ever-loving fuckety fuck was she saying? Baby? Bathwater? She took a deep breath. “I truly believe that the writing is persuasive enough to overcome… And there has to be a way to reconcile… not reconcile, to reframe… not reframe… to engage—yes—to engage with him, to engage with the work in all its flaws and brilliance. To appreciate the brilliance and to call out the flaws. To kind of reclaim it, if you know what I mean?” Rebecca could feel her face reddening, as it always did when she was passionate or when she exerted herself in any kind of physical activity.

“Oh, I do. I know exactly what you mean.” Rose laughed tartly. “ ‘Appreciate the brilliance’ and ‘call out the flaws’… Sounds like my marriage. With perhaps less appreciation and not enough… what did you say? ‘Reclaiming’? Teddy was a complicated man, of course. Complicated because he was a genius. I don’t use that word lightly, Rebecca. A man without his gifts might not be called complicated or… what do you say these days? ‘Problematic’? No, he would merely be a handsome asshole.”

Fortunately, so that Rebecca didn’t have to respond as the word “asshole” hung in the air, Lorraine came in with two folding trays tucked under her arm and a cheese board that she deposited on Rose’s lap. “May I get you something to drink?” she asked Rebecca meaningfully. “You must be parched.”

Rebecca was , suddenly, parched. “Yes, please. Water?” Her tongue was dry and sweat tickled her back. Lorraine left and Rose offered the cheese board to Rebecca, holding it between them. There was a gorgeous, oozing wedge of Camembert, peppered crackers, a bunch of green grapes, and a wooden-handled cheese knife that matched the board. Gabe had taught Rebecca, after an unfortunate faux pas during cocktails with a Parisienne author, that one never cuts the nose off the cheese wedge. Balancing awkwardly, Rebecca sliced a piece along the side of the Camembert like a French countess, smeared it on a cracker, and opted for putting the whole thing in her mouth rather than chance any cheese landing on the couch or her shirt.

“Did your mother tell you that we worked here, at the East River Review , together?” Rose asked suddenly.

Rebecca, still chewing what was, in retrospect, too large a mouthful, shook her head violently. Unthinking, she slid the cheese knife into the slot in the front of the cheese board where it belonged. Where it belonged when it was clean and NOT when it was covered in Camembert, she realized. Her face flamed. Also, WTF, Mom! Rebecca coughed a little, kept her mouth shut to avoid flying crumbs, choked, turned even redder if possible. Why hadn’t Jane told her this VERY RELEVANT information? Hadn’t Rebecca asked her point-blank? And didn’t Jane know that Rebecca would be meeting with Rose here today? Why lie? Or omit the crucial truth, which was pretty much the same as lying? Lorraine appeared with a glass of water that she handed silently but maybe judgmentally to Rebecca.

“I’m sorry to have startled you,” Rose said gently. Lorraine returned with a large bowl of greens and two plates of chicken salad and set them out on the trays. “I’m not surprised that she never mentioned it.”

Rebecca swallowed, took a sip of water, and cleared her throat. “I knew that she worked here a long time ago, but she never said anything about you or… him… and she knew I was meeting with you.” She took a plate from Rose and balanced it carefully on her knees, as the couch was too far away from the tray for safety. This mansion had two kitchens and who knew how many dining rooms. Was there not a table to eat on like a normal person? With another flush of shame, she watched Rose inspect the cheese board, its tucked-away cheese-smeared knife, and politely put it to the side. “I guess this is why I’m here? How did you know I was her daughter? Have you been in touch with each other?”

“I do understand how to use the internet, Rebecca. And, no, I haven’t spoken to Jane in”—Rose paused—“almost forty years.”

“I see,” Rebecca said. She did not see. “You worked together? Forty years ago?” Following Rose’s lead, she took a few bites of chicken salad but avoided the unwieldy greens.

“I was a writer. Like your mom. I had just received my master’s degree at NYU, where my thesis adviser was another ‘genius.’ ” Rose didn’t have to use finger quotes for Rebecca to get the subtext. “One of the most coveted jobs in the city, or anywhere people cared about these things, I suppose, was at the East River Review . Teddy was founder, editor in chief, lord of the manor if you will. He was such a charismatic, larger-than-life figure. All entwined, you know, with the writing, the power of his genius, the parties, the famous people, the beautiful women, the drinking. We had softball games in the park against the Hudson Review . One time Salman Rushdie knocked Updike over and claimed it was an accident. It was not.” She smiled, stood up, and walked to the windows, her back to Rebecca, who took advantage of this moment out of Rose’s gaze to launch herself clumsily from the couch. “And Teddy presiding over it. The most talented of all of them.”

“And my mom?” Rebecca hastily readjusted her jacket, flapping it for a moment to get some air onto her sweaty back. Had Rose said that her mom was a writer ?

“Jane was an intern with me. And the most fabulous writer. So talented in a way that I wasn’t, even though I had more training. We read the slush pile looking for the next Joan Didion. Your mother was the only one of us who ever pulled anything that got published. Did she ever tell you she found Sandra Cisneros? Jeanette Winterson? I mean before their first books were published.”

It was strange and disorienting to think of her mother as a person who had had a life so different from the one she lived in front of Rebecca. She had always been interested in Rebecca’s English essays, come to think of it, though by the time she got to college, Rebecca had stopped allowing Jane to read anything before she handed it in. And after Rebecca left for college, her mother had a part-time job at Germantown Friends in the publications department, and she volunteered at the town library. But that didn’t add up to a woman who hung out with Salman Rushdie and discovered Sandra Cisneros. “But you didn’t stay in touch? Why did you ask for me to come over here? Is it really to do with the estate?”

Rose kept her back to Rebecca and looked fixedly out the window. “I did try a few times, but your mother didn’t want to be contacted. Not by me. Teddy was quite sick for the last six years. We mostly stayed in Southampton, where I took care of him. It’s true that he was still writing, in longhand on yellow legal pads, as he always did. There are some new short stories that he was excited about. After he died, I had to sort through all his papers, which he had always insisted on keeping to himself. Now it’s my responsibility to gather information for the lawyers, for our financial adviser. In his desk here I found a novel he had written but never spoke to me about—and I had read and edited everything he wrote after we married.” Rose paused again, her shoulders stiff. “Hundreds of yellow pages. Unpublished and, as far as I know, unseen by anyone but me. There’s only one handwritten copy. I don’t know when he wrote it exactly, but it seemed he had been working on it for years.”

Rebecca thought immediately of Ami, Avenue, and Frank French. An entire unpublished novel by the Lion. Coming on the heels of the publicity after his death—the glowing obits, the tortured think pieces, the magazine articles—a new novel would be one of the biggest publishing stories of the past twenty years. Like Harper Lee’s found manuscript, published posthumously to unprecedented fanfare. And sales. Okay, so maybe they should have edited out the parts about Atticus Finch being an actual racist.

“Is it something you want Avenue to publish?” Rebecca asked. “I know we could do it justice.”

“What I want is for Jane to read it.” Rose turned away from the windows and faced Rebecca. There were tears in her eyes and she let them fall without wiping them. “She was my best friend.”