Summer at Castle Stone. Lynn Hulsman Marie

point tap-dancing around it; I got fired.” I was sitting at the kitchen table in my pajamas and bathrobe, my hair pulled back into the scrunchie I used when I washed my face. I had the stolen cashmere pashmina from my agent’s office wrapped around my shoulders like a shawl. Spread out in front of me was an open bottle of sauvignon blanc, a glass, and Tom O’Grady’s bio materials.

      “I know. I heard.”

      “At least you didn’t have to see it.” I’d had to leave the Javits Center and report to HPC security in order to clear out my desk. It was just like the movies. Two armed guards gave me an empty cardboard box with a lid and escorted me to my desk, watching carefully to make sure I didn’t make off with any staplers or hand sanitizer. Like a prisoner leaving the penitentiary, I was led to the front door and launched out onto the world without a roadmap for the future. I wanted to take a cab, but I lugged my box to the bus stop instead. The unemployed didn’t take cabs.

      “Want a glass?”

      “Yes, please,” she said taking off her coat, and setting her computer bag aside. I grabbed a glass from the cabinet and poured in what was left of the bottle. It was a scant half inch. “Oops.”

      She went to the fridge and pulled out another. “You’ve been drinking a lot lately, Shayla.”

      “I just got fired!” I defended myself. She had a point, though. Historically speaking, I was not a big lush or partier.

      “Right, and tonight’s understandable. But it’s not like you to go overboard so many nights in any given week.” She kicked off her shoes and poured herself a drink. “Is something wrong?”

      “Everything’s wrong right now,” I said. I felt guilty. I didn’t want to put Maggie on the spot for being happy. She deserved her boyfriend and her book deal, and even her shitty job at HPC, where she’d be promoted in no time flat, if she didn’t quit to be a full-time writer. “Hey, don’t worry about me. I just need a night to process all of this. Tomorrow, I’ll see the bright side.” I wasn’t sure that was strictly true, but I didn’t want to be a complete downer.

      “I know you’re putting on a brave face, but there is always a bright side. If you really feel like everything’s wrong, you have to make a radical change. When I was in college, I got dumped and I moped around the dorm with dirty hair, playing Duncan Sheik albums for a month. Finally, my hall monitor sat me down and said, “Look, you have to do something. It doesn’t matter what it is, but do something. You’re annoying.”

      “Are you saying I’m annoying?”

      “Not yet, but you will be soon enough if you don’t take action. Annoying and an alcoholic.”

      “I’m not an alcoholic! I’m just drinking to take the edge off. Matty said everyone in New York is on anti-anxiety meds and tranquilizers.”

      “If your nerves are strung that tight, then maybe you need to move to Arizona and join a sweat lodge, or a go to a Buddhist monastery or something. I mean it, Shay, sometimes a really radical change is called for. Look at Oprah. She wakes up one day and decides to stop doing Jerry Springer-like TV and be uplifting instead. Next thing you know, she’s queen of the world.” Maggie pulled a photo out of my pile of papers and spun it around to face her. “Hell-o! Who’s this hottie?”

      “That’s right! I haven’t seen you all day. He’s the guy whose book I don’t get to write.”

      She held up one of him in formal chef’s whites and a tall hat. “Nice,” she declared. She held up another of him posing stiffly in a tux, in mid-handshake with the president. “Handsome,” she declared. Pulling an action shot of him shearing a sheep while wearing a waffled thermal shirt pulled tight across his chest, and a pair of torn cords, she yelled, “Yes, please!”

      “I know, right?”

      She rifled through more photos and tear sheets. “He looks good dressed up, and all, but the sweet spot for me is that farm-boy thing. Sweaty and dirty with muscles rippling. Mm-mm-mm! Hey look, this restaurant is just a town or two over from Wicklow, where Gran’s sister and the rest of that side of the family live over in Ireland. Did Brenda give you this stuff? And by the way, is that a new pashmina?”

      I ignored the pashmina question and gave Maggie the blow-by-blow beginning with breakfast with Matty, to my meeting with Brenda, to getting shot down trans-Atlantically by Tom O’Grady, to my near-arrest and, finally, my firing.

      I finished my tale of woe and she sat silent for a minute. Then she poured herself another glass and declared, “You have to go there.”

      “Where?”

      “To Ireland, of course.”

      “You’re out of your mind. For what?”

      “To write his book.”

      “He said no.”

      “So. Go over there and make him say yes. Do something.”

      Images flashed through my head: Me, stepping off the plane and into a waiting limo to be whisked to Tom O’Grady’s world-class restaurant, where we’d drink champagne while he told his life story into a recorder; Me, yawning awake in silk pajamas between high-thread-count sheets in one of Castle Stone’s master bedroom-range guest rooms; Me, posing for photos at The Guild of Food Writer’s Awards, Hank in the front row, clapping with satisfaction.

      Maybe it was the wine, but it dawned on me that this idea was the best and only possible answer. “Yeah, that’s something I could do. It’s better than sitting around being annoying, right?”

      There was a light in Maggie’s eyes and I could see her wheels turning. “Get me my laptop,” she ordered. “And open another bottle of wine.”

      While I uncorked our last bottle, she got to work pricing airfares, and emailing and Facebooking relatives. “Give me your credit card,” she demanded.

      “Are you booking a flight? Right now?” Curling my legs under myself, I realized I felt gun-shy. “I just got fired. I’m still paying off my student loans and that credit card debt from right after college.”

      “Good point.” She leaped up and fetched her purse. “I’ll put it on mine.” Before I could protest, she held up a warning hand. “Stop. You’ll pay me when Brenda cuts you that advance check.”

      Weakly, I told her, “There’s no promise of an advance. I don’t even have a contract.”

      “No matter,” she said. “You’re going to get that book written and then she’ll have to pay you. The money will come later rather than sooner. You have a verbal agreement and if she punks on it I’ll have Eric send letters from the firm. If we need to lawyer up, we’ll lawyer up.” I was alarmed. It must have shown on my face.

      “It won’t come to that,” she assured me, typing in her credit card numbers. “Brenda needs that book done, she assigned it to you, and you are going to deliver.”

      Warmth rose up in my chest. I stared at my friend, who was efficiently setting my life’s wheels in motion. How lucky was I to have someone so firmly in my corner. The way Maggie treated me was so different from the way Hank treated me.

      “You really believe in me, don’t you Mags?”

      “Damn straight, I do. And I’m never wrong.”

      I couldn’t argue with that. Maggie has always bet on the right horse and come out a winner.

      She continued, “Oh, look! My cousin Des is answering my PM. It’s late there…he usually works nights. Must be his day off. He’s typing…he says ‘Ah sure, I’ll pick her up at the airport’ and asks ‘Is she a ride?’” Maggie laughed. “He’s disgusting,” she said, typing back. “He says tomorrow morning he’ll ask my Auntie Fiona if you can stay with them. I’m sure she’ll say yes. She’s the one who helped me apply to that summer literature seminar at Trinity College. Then I stayed at her house in Wicklow. It’s