Sebastian Stuart - The Mentor

“What about your life, Anne? If it’s Farnsworth’s, there’s a chance you’ll hate the baby. Think about the ramifications of that. You know I’m still a little conflicted about my own abortion, but at the same time I know I did the right thing. I’ve never doubted it for a second. It wasn’t the right time and it wasn’t the right man. The same may be true for you.”

“But it is the right time. I want a child.”

“But do you want this child?”

Anne starts to pace around the room. She looks down at the park, its lights twinkling in the dark. What fun it would be to take her little child-would it be a boy or a girl? — to the zoo and the carousel. To share a tuna fish sandwich sitting on a park bench.

“It’s my child as much as the father’s, Kayla. It’s my baby.”

“Anne, it’s your decision and you’re my best friend and I love you and I’ll support you in whatever you decide. But remember that you have choices.”

Anne imagines going to an Upper East Side clinic for the abortion, spending a couple of recuperative days at Canyon Ranch. The whole thing would be over with and she could get on with her life. It seems like such a simple solution. Especially considering the current state of her marriage.

“I’m speaking to a media buyers’ convention in Scottsdale on Saturday. Why don’t I fly to New York as soon as I’m done?” Kayla says.

An overwhelming sadness descends on Anne. She turns away from the window and sits on the floor, her back against the wall.

“Are you going to our fifteenth reunion?” she asks, knowing Kayla will grasp her need to change the subject.

“Hell, yes, it’s the ultimate gloat fest. All those little blond chippies slaving away on Wall Street and in Silicon Valley. We showed ’em, didn’t we, Turner?”

Anne leans her head against the side of her dresser and closes her eyes. “We showed ’em.”

“I’m six hours away from buying you a big fat martini. Promise me you’ll call if you want me to hop a plane.”

“I promise.”

“Love you, kiddo.”

“I love you, Kayla.”

Anne hugs her knees and rests her head on them. The room seems so big from down on the floor. She starts to hum to herself, some half-forgotten lullaby her father loved.

Then she hears the front door open, followed by Charles’s approaching footfalls. She scuttles into the bathroom, stands up, and grabs her toothbrush. He appears in the bathroom doorway, his eyes shining.

“Hi,” he says, giving her cheek a perfunctory kiss.

“Where’ve you been?”

“I took a long walk.”

“Do you want me to heat something up?”

“I ate.”

“Oh. Where?”

“I grabbed a bite at a coffee shop.”

Charles hates coffee shops.

“I want to do some work,” he says. He takes off his shirt and splashes cold water on his face and under his arms.

“Oh, Charles? How much longer do you think you’ll need that secretary?”

“Hard to say.” He walks over to his closet and puts on a worn denim workshirt.

Anne stands in the bathroom doorway. “But you want to keep her around?”

“It’s nice to know she’s out there staying on top of things.”

“I see.”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“A little.”

“Why?”

“I don’t trust her.”

“What’s not to trust? She’s just some highly efficient, highly insecure girl.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“It’s a nice night out,” Charles says.

“Are you on to something?”

Charles nods but doesn’t elaborate.

“Well, that is exciting. Although it’s not easy being a literary widow.”

“Think how much fun it’ll be when I return from the grave.”

Walking down the hallway that leads to Charles’s offices, Emma takes several deep breaths and tries to put a casual, everyday expression on her face. She walks into the outer office and there he is, sitting at her desk, her pages in front of him.

“Do you know the ending?” he immediately asks. He looks as if he’s gotten very little sleep.

“I think so.”

“Don’t tell me.” Charles looks down at the pages for a long moment, then crosses to Emma and takes her by the shoulders. “It’s extraordinary, Emma.”

Emma feels light-headed, as if all the blood has drained from her body and been replaced by a rush of pure oxygen. “You don’t have to say that.”

“How long have you been working on this?”

“About two years.”

“Have you taken writing classes?”

“No.” He’s looking at her so strangely, holding her shoulders so tightly. “I wrote in school. I won a story contest in the eighth grade.”

“When do you write?”

“Whenever I can.” Emma makes a small move to get away. “Shall I make coffee?”

He gives a little snort, as if coffee is the most insignificant thing in the world. He finally lets go of her and walks across the room, rubbing his hands together. Then he spins around. “I’d like you to finish it here.”

“What?”

“I want you to finish your book here.”

“But the job-”

“Your job description just changed. This would help me a thousand times more than all the answered letters and returned phone calls in the world. I want these two rooms to be charged with electricity, with creative fire.” He gestures to her manuscript. “This is the whole fucking ball game.”

“But, Charles…”

He crosses back to her and lifts her chin. His voice becomes low and intimate and warm, like… like a father’s. “Listen to me, Emma. When I was just about your age, someone helped me. I’d like to give it back. I don’t want you to think too much about what I’m going to say-I just want you to keep on doing exactly what you’re doing-but you have a gift, a wonderful gift.”

Emma feels a sudden urge to lay her head on his shoulder and have him stroke her hair. She wants him to take care of her, to guide her, to make the world a safe place, finally, at least for a little while.

“What do you think? You and me, these two rooms?”

Emma nods.

“Good. Let’s get to work.”

Charles and Emma are walking across Central Park on their way to the movie theater. After a week of nonstop work, he’s insisted they take the afternoon off, feels it’s important for her to see Rashomon. He leads her along his favorite path, the one that winds through the Shakespeare Garden, planted with flowers mentioned in the plays, and then up a hill to Belvedere Castle. There’s a courtyard beside the castle and they lean against its low stone wall and admire the view of northern Manhattan and the little lake that sits below, beside an outdoor amphitheater where Shakespeare is performed on summer nights.

“Next year we’ll go to one together,” he says.

“Won’t that be a midsummer night’s dream,” Emma says and then wishes she hadn’t.

Charles smiles. “Come on, we don’t want to miss the beginning of the movie.”

Emma loves sitting beside Charles in the dark theater-the forced intimacy, their shoulders touching, the large bag of popcorn they’re sharing. She’s enthralled by Kurosawa’s artistry, by the story, the stories, he’s telling. Charles is like a little boy showing off a treasured possession.

“He uses the camera like a paintbrush-it’s masterful.”

Emma notices that nearby moviegoers are shooting him glances. Normally, she would have been mortified, but with Charles she doesn’t care. She’s never seen him so adorable. When she looks over, his eyes are dancing in the screen’s reflected light.

“Every single frame has a purpose, just as every sentence should. You have to direct the reader’s eye!”