Lynn Hulsman - Summer at Castle Stone

“I know it.”

“Sorry. I’m just so used to having to explain myself. Guys and old people never know what I’m talking about. It must be fun working in a publishing house.”

“It can be.” My stomach growled. I never ate dinner last night. My stomach had been sour after skipping out on Jordan. I eyeballed my bagel, wishing I could take a big bite. “There’s a lot of drudgery.”

“Really? It seems so glamorous.”

“Not at all,” I told her. “For instance, one of my jobs is to go through the slush pile. You know, the unsolicited manuscripts that ‘come in over the transom,’ as we say.”

“I know what a slush pile is.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m just so used to having to explain myself.” We both laughed. She was all right, I decreed. I took a huge bite out of my bagel, dropping capers and pieces of onion onto the plate I held beneath my chin. I was so hungry, I talked while I chewed, but I didn’t think she’d mind. She seemed pretty into me.

“So, the best part of the job is discovering a diamond in the rough, you know? I’ll sift through 30 manuscripts, one worse than the next, and then I’ll hit on something that sings.”

“That must be an amazing feeling,” she said, eyes shining.

“You know, it is,” I went on, encouraged. “The idea I can make or break a career!” I knew I was puffing things up, but she seemed genuinely interested in my work, so I didn’t think taking a little license was so bad. I bit off another huge hunk of bagel. The oily piece of fish slid off the top in a sheet and slapped me in the chin. “Excuse me,” I said, mouth full, swiping at my chin with a napkin.

“It’s fine, eat.”

“Anyway,” I said, putting down my plate and picking up my disappointing non-alcoholic drink, “I don’t like to brag, but you know that novel about the girl from the Pakistani fishing village who builds a reed boat and finds asylum on a PETA schooner?” I paused for effect. “Me.”

“No way!”

“Way. I found it in the trash on Lizbeth’s desktop. I fished it out, and the rest is history.” I smiled what I hoped was a humble smile. “I’m going into the kitchen to get a cocktail. Wanna come?” She nodded, following.

“But there are two sides to the coin, you know.” I pushed through the door to the empty kitchen. The tray of pre-made drinks was empty, so I mixed one. “Bloody Mary?” I asked. She shook her head no.

“Alcohol,” she stage-whispered. I threw in an extra splash of vodka.

“So, like I was saying, I have to read through mountains of crap to find the needle in the haystack. I was merrily plowing through manuscripts the other day and I come across a ‘romantic suspense’ book. Wrong editor! Rookie mistake from a newbie author. So the story is this: There’s this girl alone in a cabin in the woods and for whatever reason she’s wearing an evening gown and heels. With little or no fanfare, Bigfoot breaks through the door and…they have sex!”

My new friend wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“Right?” I said, tasting my drink. “I didn’t sign up for that.” I stirred in more horseradish. “I thought I was going to have to wash out my eyes with bleach.”

“But doesn’t Lizbeth handle only literary fiction?” she asked.

“Exactly! That was my point.” I said. It felt good to connect with a kindred spirit. “Do your research, people. Worse yet, there’s the awful, terrible, abysmal writer who should never put a word on the page but thinks his work is full of gravitas and import, like he’s the next John Steinbeck or Margaret Atwood.

“Ugh, those people,” she agreed.

“I cracked one open last week that was so pretentious, with such bad grammar, I excerpted it and sent it around the office. I’m pretty sure it wound up being posted on Miss Snarky’s blog.” I smiled and raised my eyebrows. “You know, the one run by the anonymous editor?”

“Sure, I know it. What was wrong with the book?” She whispered, smiling back.

“To start, the protagonist’s name was…hang on, heh heh, heh. Oh!” I dabbed at my eyes. “The protagonist’s name was Keanu!”

Her smile faded. I was losing her.

“Because who on the planet has ever been named Keanu other than Keanu Reeves?” I tried.

“Was his girlfriend named Suri?” she demanded.

Oh. My. God. “How did you know? Um, wait, what did you say your name was?”

She turned on her heel and pushed through the swinging door. Now I knew her name. I’d last seen it right below the line “Frenemies: A Love Story” on the title page of the worst novel I’d ever read. Hanging my head, I took a deep breath and pushed the door open a crack. I spied her with her coat on, kissing my father’s cheek at the front entrance. And then she was gone.

I could see Brenda in the corner, watching the whole goodbye transaction with an eagle eye. The minute my father was standing alone, Brenda was at his elbow. Oh. My God. She was hitting on him! She wasn’t a bad-looking woman. I suppose they’re roughly the same age, but Hank hadn’t dated a woman roughly the same age as himself since Mom.

My phone rang in my pocket, startling me. Feeling guilty, I shut the door and fetched my drink. “Hello?”

“Shay, do you want to come over to Eric’s parents and watch the game?”

“The game? Since when do I watch games? No!”

“Please? I have to be here and it’s so boring. But there’s sushi, and weirdly, hot sake.”

“I’m at Hank’s brunch, remember? And guess what. Brenda’s flirting with my dad. I didn’t know they even knew each other.”

“You are kidding me. That’s great!”

“Euw. Why is that great?”

“Use it! Put the phone down right now, walk up to her and demand to be seen tomorrow! I mean it. I’m only 12 blocks from Hank’s. If you don’t call me in 15 minutes and tell me you did it, I’m coming over there.”

“You just want an excuse to get out of there.”

“Shayla!”

“OK, I’ll call you later.”

“Fifteen minutes. I mean it.”

I refilled my drink for Dutch courage, choosing to ignore that I was drinking a lot these days, and strode into the living room. Brenda was holding on to Hank’s arm, pushing her hair behind her ear girlishly. I concentrated on not making a face.

“There she is!” Hank bellowed. “Oh ho ho, you have done it this time, my girl.”

“Done what?”

“That little number who writes for The Nooky or the The Spanky, or whatever-the-hell, is not a fan. Ho ho, not at all a fan.”

“Yeah, I know.” I said trying to end the conversation quickly. I didn’t want to bring up the concept of rejecting books in front of Brenda, lest she get any ideas.

“You screwed the pooch! Do your homework, kiddo. She’s going to work for the New York Times Review of Books starting next week. You know what they say, don’t shit where you eat.”

My stomach plummeted. “I don’t think that phrase applies here, Hank.”

“Wait a minute. Shayla, you are his daughter, right?”

“Yes,” I admitted, making space for the elephant that has always been in any room in which Brenda and I dwelled.

“What’s with the ‘Hank’ business?”

“It just…makes more sense that way.” I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to admit that she knew we were related, and I didn’t want to explain that I’d started calling Hank ‘Hank’ from a very early age, long before I wanted to be a writer.

“I’m not really the ‘Daddy’ type,” he chuckled. I nodded and laughed along, but hearing him say it was like a punch in the gut.

In my pocket, my phone rang again. Maggie. I reached in and silenced it. “Hey Brenda,” I forced myself to say, “Can you fit me in around lunchtime tomorrow?”