Glenn Cooper - Secret of the Seventh Son

“Can I call you a writer now?” Will asked.

A tear formed and she nodded.

He quickly turned away and retreated into the kitchenette. “Let me get the bubbly before you get all blubbery.”

Laura whispered to Nancy, “He so doesn’t like it when you get emotional.”

“I’ve noticed,” Nancy said.

Over steaming bowls of chili, Will toasted for the umpteenth time and seemed to take pleasure in the fact that all of them were swigging champagne. He fetched another bottle and continued to pour. Nancy mildly protested but let him continue until the froth overflowed and wet her fingers. “I almost never drink, but this is tasty,” she said.

“Everyone’s got to drink at this party,” Will said firmly. “You a drinking man, Greg?”

“In moderation.”

“I excessively drink in moderation,” Will joked, catching a sharp look from his daughter. “I thought journalists were big boozers.”

“We come in all stripes.”

“You going to come in the striped model that follows me around news conferences?”

“I want to do print journalism. Investigative reporting.”

Laura chimed in, “Greg believes that investigative journalism is the most effective way to tackle social and political problems.”

“Do you?” Will asked with a jab to his words. Sanctimony always raised his hackles.

“I do,” Greg replied, equally prickly.

“Okay, I now pronounce you…” Laura said lightly, to head off a problem.

Will pressed. “How’s the job landscape look for investigative journalism?”

“Not great. I’m doing an internship at the Washington Post. Obviously, I’d love to get a gig there. If you ever want to pass me a tip, here’s my card.” He was half kidding.

Will slipped it into his shirt pocket. “I used to date a gal at the Washington Post.” He snorted. “It wouldn’t help your chances to use me as a reference.”

Laura wanted to change the subject. “So, you want to hear about my meeting?”

“Absolutely, give me details.”

She slurped through the champagne foam. “It was so great,” she cooed. “My editor, Jennifer Ryan, who’s a real sweetheart, spent almost half an hour telling me how much she liked the changes I’d made and how it only needed a few tweaks, etcetera, etcetera, and then she told me we were going up to the fourth floor to meet with Mathew Bryce Williams, who’s the publisher. It’s an old town house, so beautiful, and Mathew’s office is dark and filled with antiques, like some kind of English club, you know, and he’s an older guy, like Dad’s age, but way more distinguished-”

“Hey!” Will howled.

“Well, he is!” she continued. “He’s like a caricature of an upper-class Brit but he was urbane and charming and-you’re not going to believe this-he offered me sherry from a crystal decanter which he served in little crystal glasses. It was so perfect. And then he went on and on about how much he loved my writing-he called my style ‘lean and spare with the muscularity of a fresh young voice.’” She spoke his words with a mock English accent. “Can you believe he said that?”

“Did he say anything about how much you’re going to make?” Will asked.

“No! I wasn’t going to ruin the moment with a crass discussion about money.”

“Well, you’re not going to retire on what they’re paying up front. Is she, Greg, unless there’s a lot of dough in investigative journalism?”

The young man wouldn’t take the bait.

“It’s a small publisher, Dad! They only do like ten books a year.”

“Are you doing a book tour?” Nancy asked.

“I don’t know yet but it’s not like it’s going to be some huge book. It’s literary fiction, not a pulp novel.”

Nancy wanted to know when she could read it.

“The galleys should be out in a few months. I’ll send you a copy. Want to read it, Dad?”

He stared at her. “I don’t know, do I?”

“I think you’ll survive.”

“Not every day you get called a wrecking ball-especially by your daughter,” he said ruefully.

“It’s a novel. It’s not you. It’s inspired by you.”

Will raised his glass. “Here’s to inspirational men.”

They clinked glasses again.

“Did you read it, Greg?” Will asked.

“I did. It’s superb.”

“So you know more about me than I know about you.” Will was getting looser and louder. “Maybe her next book’ll be about you.”

The comment made Laura say acidly, “You know, you really ought to read it. I’ve turned it into a screenplay-how’s that for hopeful? I’ll leave a copy. It’s a quicker read. You’ll get the idea.”

Laura and Greg left soon after dinner to catch a train back to Washington. Nancy stayed behind to help clean up. The evening was too pleasant to cut short, and Will had shaken off his irritability and seemed relaxed and mellow, an altogether different man from the coiled spring she encountered every day on the job.

Outside, the light was bleaching out and the traffic noises were fading, except for the occasional wail of a Bellevue ambulance. They worked side by side in the little kitchenette, washing and drying, both swaying with the afterglow of the champagne. Will was already on the scotch. Both of them were happily out of their routine, and the domestic simplicity of doing dishes was soothing.

It wasn’t planned-Will would reflect on it later-but instead of reaching for the next plate, he reached for her ass and started rubbing it gently in little circles. In retrospect, he should have seen it coming.

She had cheekbones now and an hour-glass shape and, damn it, he would say if asked, looks mattered to him. But even more, her personality had molded under his tutelage. She was calmer, less gung-ho and caffeinated, and to his amusement, some of his cynicism had rubbed off. There was the occasional pleasant whiff of sarcasm emanating from her mouth. The insufferable Girl Scout was gone and in her place was a woman who no longer jangled his nerve endings. Quite the opposite.

Her hands were in soapy water. She kept them there, closed her eyes for a moment and didn’t say or do anything.

He turned her toward him and she had to figure out what to do with her hands. She finally placed them wet on his shoulders and said, “Do you think this is a good idea?”

“No, do you?”

“Nope.”

He kissed her and liked the way her lips felt and the way her jaw softened. He cupped her bottom with both palms and felt the smooth denim. His boozy head got hazy with desire and he pressed against her.

“The housekeeper came today. I’ve got clean sheets,” he whispered.

“You know how to romance a girl.” She wanted this to happen, he could tell.

He led her by a slippery hand to the bedroom, flopped on the bedspread and pulled her on top.

He was kissing her blood-warm neck, feeling under her blouse, when she said, “We’re going to regret this. It’s against all-”

He covered her lips with his mouth then pulled back to say, “Look, if you really don’t want to, we can roll the clock back a few minutes and finish the dishes.”

She kissed him, the first one that was hers to give. She said, “I hate doing dishes.”

When they left the bedroom, it was dark and the living room was eerily quiet, just the hum of the air conditioner and the low whoosh of distant traffic on the FDR Drive. He had given her a clean white dress shirt to put on, something he’d done before with new women. They seemed to like the feeling of starch against bare skin and all the iconic imagery of the ritual. She was no different. The shirt swallowed her up and covered her prudishly. She sat on the sofa and drew her knees up to her chest. The skin that showed was cool and mottled like alabaster.