Elise Blackwell - Grub

“So what’s up with the zebras?” Eddie asked. “Italian zebras?”

“I guess it’s fitting,” Henry said.

“And why is that?” Jackson asked, his voice louder than anyone’s.

“Your book: it’ll be black and white and read all over.”

Jackson and Eddie winced at his joke but laughed nonetheless.

Jackson called out, for the whole place to hear, “And bring us one of those really big-ass bottles of Chianti. We’ve got some toasting to do.”

The day after he took Eddie Renfros and Henry Baffler to lunch, Jackson Miller still didn’t have a formal offer on his novel. He believed that good things generally happen quickly, that delay was most often ominous. Cursing all fifteen editors for stalling his advance, he paced his apartment and considered a very early drink. He was relieved to receive Amanda’s invitation to meet her at the Frick.

Before heading uptown, he left a message with his agent instructing her to call him on his cell phone if the news came. “Yes, I know,” he said in irritation, “I know you could have figured that out yourself, but I’m letting you know. Use the cell phone.”

“The drinks are on me,” Amanda had said when she called him, “to celebrate your imminent fame.”

He planned his reply on the subway: “Your money will never be any good when I’m in the room.” She’d go along, he was sure of it.

He found her in the Fragonard room, looking beautiful in a pale blue dress and high heels. It was so different, he thought, looking a woman eye to eye. With Margot, he had to look at the top of her head or crick his neck to meet her gaze.

“You look like you belong here, Amanda. You positively match. You’re a vision of pastel.”

Amanda smiled. “I suppose I’ll be seeing your name in the ‘Hot Deals’ section of Publishers Weekly soon. Are you holding out for six figures?”

Jackson registered that she said I’ll be seeing rather than we’ll be seeing . “That’s what my agent expects.” He rubbed his stomach. “I love saying ‘my agent.’ Sounds good, doesn’t it?”

Amanda gave him a hug and kissed him halfway between his cheek and mouth. “That’s wonderful, Jack. I’m so happy for you.”

“I just hope that it’s deserved.”

“You worked hard. You looked at what the market needed, and you sat down and wrote it. Of course you deserve every success. I’ve got a good feeling, too, about the splash you’re going to make.”

“Amanda, there’s no reception my book could meet that would make me any happier than I am seeing the smile I see now.” He delivered this line in a tone of mock charm intended to veil the truth in his words.

“Jack, I brought you here because I want to show you something.” She linked her arm in his and walked him through the rooms of the museum.

Jackson was struck by the complete absence of smell, which gave him the impression of rarified air, of life in a vacuum. “I could live in a house like this,” he said.

“In here. There.” She pointed to a landscape of a somewhat ramshackle house in the woods.

“Not there, I mean here, in this house, the Frick house.”

“I know what you mean, silly. But I want you to look at this painting. Find the people.”

Jackson focused on the canvas and, sure enough, was soon able to point out several human figures that had not been apparent on first look. “The original ‘Where’s Waldo’ game,” he said.

“This is the thing,” Amanda said, and she told him the story of the talented young painter who had traded art for bureaucracy.

“That’s a great story,” Jackson said. “A great story.”

“Exactly. I tried to sell Eddie on the idea of writing a book about Hobbema, but he doesn’t get it. I thought you might.”

“But you’re writing again. You should write about it.”

Her hair swished across her shoulders as she shook her head. The fabric of her dress was very thin, real silk under his fingertips as he held her arm, lightly, as though it meant nothing.

“I’m fishing for different trout,” she said. “I’m working on something else, going for the women’s market. But this book would be just right for you. More serious than your first, but it could still be clever. And it would appeal to your audience now in a few years. Write for them as they age, and you’ll have a career the rest of your life.”

Jackson nodded and further studied the painting, admiring the moderate use of primary color among the woodsy tones. It was accomplished, clearly, yet there were odd glitches in perspective and the texture of the paint was sometimes smooth and sometimes bumpy. The painter hadn’t got it quite right. He could have been a great, Jackson concluded, but he needed more practice. Amanda was right about everything, which had always been part of her magnetism. A beautiful woman who was practical, with instincts you could trust. Eddie had no idea what he had, none at all.

“So do spill,” he said. “What’s your book about?”

“I’ll tell you soon enough.”

“Put a dead child in it. That’s what’s selling now.”

“True, which means that won’t be selling in a year and a half, when my book will be published.”

“Will be?”

Amanda nodded readily. “Will be. Speaking of dead children, do you know the awful story of the Frick child? A little girl, I think, about three or something. It was a needle or pin that got stuck in her arm or leg. Shouldn’t have been a big deal, but it got infected and this was before antibiotics. She died, and her parents were naturally devastated.”

“It goes to show us that money can’t buy everything,” Jackson said, grabbing a handy platitude.

“Exactly. It can’t buy everything.”

After walking a few blocks, they picked out a bar advertising its formidable line-up of martinis and stepped into pulsing florescent blue light. Jackson used his line when Amanda slipped her billfold from her purse: “Your money will never be any good when I’m in the room.”

“You’re such a good friend to me, Jack,” she answered, her billfold quickly disappearing.

One drink later, Jackson asked her if she was sure she didn’t want the Hobbema idea for herself.

“It’s something I want you to have,” she answered. “It’s one thing I want to give you.” Another drink later, she asked him about Margot. “How’s the new girl? Still thinking about her too much?”

“I care a lot about what happens to her. I can say that. She’s a very nice person, absolutely decent.”

“Is she well suited to you? I bet she’s just the sort to really shine at your publication parties — brilliant and stylish and full of tact and wit. Just like you.” Amanda circled her cocktail with the little straw, bit her bottom lip, gazed back at Jackson. “That’s what you deserve — and what you’ll need.”

“Well, that’s not quite the right description for her, but I care about her tremendously.” Jackson reached again for the studied charm that he hoped would mask the truth in his words and added, “After all, you’re already taken.”

Margot Yarborough was online looking up train schedules to New York. She’d meant to get down sooner, as soon as she’d finished her novel, but the days had slipped by. She’d spent some time investigating and selecting a reputable agent — and of course her father’s book still required her ministrations — yet she still couldn’t quite account for the time that had passed, not to herself or to Jackson. In his emails, Jackson continued to seem solicitous of her welfare. He asked her about her home, the name of her childhood dog, whether she’d gone to her high school prom, and, most recently, whether she ever wore high-heeled shoes. He also pressed her. “Just pick a day,” he’d written most recently. “Like tomorrow.” Of course he must be questioning her interest. She did like him, but the idea of having his affection at a remove was sometimes more attractive than the idea of seeing him. She knew this was crazy, just a funk or something. She had warned him she was a homebody. But still, this was the week. Tuesday, she thought. She was deleting an email in which she promised to come down on Wednesday when she heard her father yelling.