Lynn Hulsman - Summer at Castle Stone

“Clock’s ticking,” I said, faking confidence.

“All right, all right! I guess… can you get me a meeting with your father?”

Son of a bitch! I grabbed my coat. It bumped across the table, upsetting my full drink. Now the hem was doused in whiskey, and it dripped down the back of my tights as I pushed my arms into it, heading for the door.

“Shayla, wait!” he called.

The question couldn’t have been, ‘What do you love about your book?’ or ‘If you could live anywhere other than New York, where would it be?’ or even, ‘Do you drink coffee or tea in the morning?’ could it?

“Shayla!”

I blew past Sabina and she deftly protected her tray of full drinks. “Loser,” I thought I heard her whisper, but it was hard to hear with my hat on.

I took the stairs two at a time, pushed open the heavy, upholstered door, and hurled myself out onto the slippery New York street. Veering in toward the wall of the building to avoid a crowd of St. Patrick’s Day revelers, walking three abreast, and caterwauling Irish drinking songs. I bumped into a pale young man decked out in green from head to toe, wearing a leprechaun hat. “Sorry,” I said.

He whipped around and looked me bleary-eyed in the face. “No, lady. I’m sorry,” he slurred.

“Why?” I asked. I looked down. He was peeing on my boot.

As the big hound is, so will the pup be.

Coffee in hand, I padded to the door of the apartment. A flashback of last night’s date debacle threatened to play in my head. “No!” I said out loud. Living through the humiliation once was bad enough, I didn’t have to play it on a loop. Why did every guy in this city have to be a jerk?

I undid the chain, the lock, and the deadbolt, and bent over to pick up my New York Times from the mat. The Times was the best thing about a Sunday morning. Scratch that, The Times was the best thing about living in New York, period. This morning was especially sweet because Maggie had stayed over at Eric’s and I had the place to myself. I love Maggie, but our apartment is tight, and we’re always on top of each other. I wish we had a terrace, or a little backyard like the brownstones in Brooklyn, but publishing assistants couldn’t afford outdoor spaces in Manhattan. I wondered what the advance money was for Maggie’s book. If she got rich, would she leave me and get her own place? I shook my head hard. If she did, she deserved to enjoy it. Maggie worked hard, and I was proud of her success. My stomach dropped. I was ashamed that I hadn’t asked her about her book deal since Friday night. I would, though, and with a smile on my face.

Later, I took the L train up to Hank’s, stopping in at Zabar’s to pick up a pound of Nova lox to bring with me. I knew it was kind of silly. He always hired caterers to do the food for his brunches. Gourmet fish wasn’t within my budget, either, but it was my father’s favorite and I wanted to make him happy.

Hurrying up the block on West End Avenue, I spotted the weekend doorman, smoking out by the curb, semi-crouched behind a parked van. Noticing me, he rushed to throw down his cigarette, and rushed back under the pre-war canvas awning that ran the length of the carpeted walkway that lead to the glass-paned double doors at the apartment building’s entrance. It was painted with the words The Witherspoon . The font seemed old-fashioned to me when I was growing up there, but had now taken on a retro-hip quality. I shuddered to think what new tenants, without rent-controlled leases, paid for the three-bedroom apartments complete with maid’s rooms, formal dining rooms, and high ceilings today. Not that Hank couldn’t afford it.

“Miss Shayla! How nice to see you. You never come around anymore.”

“I’m pretty busy, Dmitry. Got bills to pay and all,” I was rushing in, worried I’d be late.

“Well, your dad misses you.”

I stopped. “Did he say that?”

“No, he didn’t say that in those words,” Dmitry answered, popping a mint, “but he’s your dad! He must. Right?”

I headed in. “Right. By the way,” I called over my shoulder, “Don’t toss away a cigarettes on my account. I’ll never rat you out.”

“You are a beautiful girl, Miss Shayla!” I heard him call as the elevator doors closed. Yes, that’s me, I thought, beautiful. Wowing the over-60 crowd. It would be nice to hear that from a man who wasn’t paid to say it.

I knocked on the door, even though I have a key. I’d walked in on more than one half-dressed woman in the last decade, and I didn’t need a shock on top of my bad-date hangover. The door swung open, and Hank said, “Oh, Shayla. It’s you. There are Bloody Marys in the kitchen.” He headed over to the docking station and fiddled with the music. Soon, Django Reinhardt was twanging out of the surround-sound speakers.

“I brought you some lox,” I said. He didn’t answer. To be fair, his hearing wasn’t what it used to be. “I’ll just put it on a platter.” I swung through the heavy wooden door to the kitchen, and came face-to-face with Brenda Sackler. She was pouring extra vodka into one of the pre-made drinks on the sideboard.

“Oh! What a surprise. Hello, Brenda.”

“Shayla!” she barked. I don’t think she’s capable of whispering. “Imagine seeing you here.” Was that a command? A pleasantry? She leaned over and slurped the top of her too-full drink. “Huh!” She plunged a long stalk of celery into it and swung out the door, leaving me hanging.

While I was plating the fish and making myself a virgin cocktail, I heard the bell ring a few times and the murmur of voices growing louder as the number of guests grew. Hank told me it was going to be a small party. I didn’t feel very social. I wished it were just him and me eating bagels in front of the TV, like it used to be when I was young. Him in that flannel bathrobe, me in my jams. I made myself push out into the dining room to mingle.

About a dozen people stood or sat in pairs and trios. Looking around, I took in the faces. Aside from Brenda, there was no one there whom I knew personally, though I recognized a couple of people. Hank always drew an eclectic crowd. There was that hot young Canadian actor/producer/director, and that columnist from The Atlantic, and a guy I was pretty sure was Hank’s bookie. I put both halves of an everything bagel on a plate, and dressed it up with scallion cream cheese, capers, and my lox. Then, I piled on sliced red onion. What the hell. I had no one to kiss.

“I admire that you’re a feminist,” a young woman said, pointing at my brunch. I looked at my bagel, then looked at her. “What?”

“Eating whatever you want. I think it’s great!” I scanned her face, sussing out whether she was joking.

“Carbs!” she stage-whispered.

Involuntarily, I checked her plate. On it sat baby carrots and pepper strips from the crudité platter, and a brown lump that resembled nothing on the table. She saw me looking.

“Oh, this. I pack my own food. You know.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Gluten,” she stage-whispered. Who did she think was going to hear us?

“Excuse me,” I said, heading for the kitchen, this time for a full-octane Bloody Mary. The situation screamed out for ‘hair of the dog.’

“Wait! Are you Shayla Sheridan?”

“Yes.” I braced myself for the inevitable question: ‘You’re Hank de Winter’s daughter, right.’ Instead, she said, “You work at Haversmith, Peebles, and Chin, right?”

“Yes! I do.”

“That’s so cool. I truly admire Lizbeth Black. She’s my dream editor.”

“She’s my boss. Are you a novelist?”

“I hope to be,” she said, blushing. “I’m the features editor at The Frisky. You know? The online sex and dating magazine?”