The Idea of Him. Holly Peterson

and looked at her. “Really, Caitlin, that’s all that matters?” Caitlin and I spent so much time together all day long that we often went into sister mode. I felt like picking a fight with her just because she was in front of me.

      She tilted her head. “That’s not what I meant.” She lay back on the sofa. “You’re good at what you do, but you should be concentrating your anxiety on your other talents. Maybe you’d get further, faster, and be able to leave this place.”

      “Why?” I asked sarcastically. “You angling for my job?”

      “Jesus, Allie. Chill,” she said. “Why would you say that, when all I’m doing is showing my support for your writing?”

      “Sorry. I was kind of joking, or trying to,” I said. It had been unfair of me; she was right.

      She grinned, apology accepted. “I read your reports and speeches every day. They sing compared to everyone else’s around here. You should be using your clout with Wade or Murray to move your own fiction writing career along and stop worrying about the little stuff that Murray is always going to take credit for anyway.” She settled in for a little lecture. “If I had access to Murray’s connections like you do, or to Wade’s, I’d be working them harder is all. If I was writing a script about a surrogate mom, like you are, I’d be asking Wade to show it to Sarah Jessica Parker, poster mom for surrogates.”

      “Are you out of your mind? I’m not involving Wade in my writing career. I want to do it my way.”

      “Fine. Do it all slow and appropriate. But just remember slow and appropriate usually gets beaten at the box office by swift and shrewd.” Caitlin started balancing a pillow on her feet. This woman could never sit still. “Max is meeting with the festival team and Murray again tomorrow. You could go and get Max to invest in your script.”

      “That’s not possible,” I said, meaning the Max meeting and not the immature notion that a script I hadn’t even finished yet could be pitched. Murray didn’t lie to me. That’s one thing I could count on. “Murray isn’t going to talk business with the festival people for a while. He wants me to handle it all.”

      “Well, it said FF on his calendar for tomorrow. They’re meeting at some hotel in the West Forties. I’m sure of it.”

      I was shocked anew at her espionage. “How do you know FF is film festival?”

      “Well, they are the initials for starters, and I asked Selena, because I’m really nosy and she told me yes, but that I shouldn’t say anything.”

      I let that sit. Caitlin was always on my side, but a little difficult to control. I just had to channel her energy into productive areas, like this revelation that my boss had lied about not getting involved in festival business. Her skill was often valuable, but it made Caitlin seem at times much more than five years younger than she was. “You’ve got a package waiting for you up front,” she said, bouncing toward my door. “You want me to go get it? Maybe it’s Wade trying to get on your good side.”

      “Oh my God, Caitlin! You talk like a cattle auctioneer! Yes, go get the package. Jesus!” I sat at my desk thinking that something with my boss wasn’t sitting right. He told me he wasn’t doing festival business with Max Rowland anymore, then he has a private meeting about it without telling me? Was every man in my life cheating on me in one way or another?

      Click.

      Caitlin sped out of the room and returned just as quickly, holding a box wrapped in dark brown paper, peppered with an absurd number of crooked postage stamps, and my address written in a familiar script. I ran a finger across the handsomely scrawled Par Avion, and I knew instantly the provenance. I opened it up. No card, but just as I expected: a pair of black silk long johns. I hadn’t heard from James since the last pair.

      Caitlin peeked over my computer again. “Who the hell sends long underwear in May?”

      “It’s nothing.”

      “Oh. It’s something. Just something you don’t want to tell me.” She smiled, completely softening up. That, and knowing she was getting nowhere. “It’s okay. I still adore you. Keep your secrets. But if you want an ear, I’m here for you.” She had the sense to close the door behind her and leave me alone, wry amusement written all over her face.

      James again. Through the years, he would always try to make me feel protected by sending a pair of long johns like these with a note saying: I will always keep you warm and safe. Part of me would immediately begin to feel better just remembering his words.