Summer at Castle Stone. Lynn Hulsman Marie

was that?”

      I hesitated. He was asking my age.

      “Five. Why?” I examined his face. What was he getting at? “How old are you?” I countered. I didn’t like being on my guard.

      “Twenty-three, but a very mature twenty-three. Graduated Yale at twenty-one, because I skipped a year of high school. I interned at a couple of small newspapers while I was there — did some beat reporting — and got hired by Cooper-Prentiss when I graduated. As an associate editor. I skipped doing the whole assistant thang.”

      “I’m doing the assistant ‘thang’ now.” I watched in horror as my hands made air quotes. “But not for long, you know.” I took a big slug out of my drink. The whiskey burned the back of my throat but my mouth was full. I coughed through my nose, sending tiny droplets of blood onto his pant leg. Struggling to stifle my sputtering, I barked out “I…am…so sorry.”

      “Not a problem.” He picked out some of the cleaner napkins from the table, and dabbed at his knee. Embarrassed, I swept the rest of the bloodied pile into my bag.

      “Sorry,” I said.

      “You apologize a lot.”

      That shut my mouth. He was right. I didn’t feel sorry about anything. But I had gotten sucked in by his image, and I was playing a game falling all over myself trying to impress him. Sure, he was some kind of publishing wunderkind. Sure, he had a real tan, earned on an adventure trip to someplace like Costa Rica or maybe Australia. But like Maggie pointed out, I wasn’t so bad myself. Relax, Shayla, I coached myself. Just be yourself. It’s good enough. Attractive as Jordan was, I wasn’t dying to touch him or kiss him, though. That was kind of weird. But it was also good. Realizing that gave me back some of my power.

      “Shayla?”

      “Anyway,” I snapped back to the conversation, “I was telling you that I’m a writer.” I said this with confidence. “So, I won’t be doing the assistant, uh, I won’t be an assistant for long.”

      He looked at me with interest. “Really? I feel like I should know that, Shayla Sheridan.”

      The way he said my name uncurled something inside me. His voice was strong and clear, hinting more at a man’s than a boy’s. As a little test, I smiled. He smiled too, and draped his arm over the back of the banquette, looking like he had all the time in the world. Hmm, perhaps there’s more to him than I thought. I did like it when a man pulled off being smooth. Maybe I could have a one-night stand. I hadn’t done that in ages, since well before Noah, and before Noah, I’d gone out with Josh for a long time. It’s not fair to compare Josh, though. With Josh, we’d been more like best friends than the last of the red-hot lovers.

      “Tell, me, Shayla, what have you written?”

      I hated this question. It’s the American way to define people by their jobs and to make them prove that they’re contenders. The next questions were invariably A) What have you written that I’ve heard of? And B) So you’re following in your father’s footsteps?

      After suffering scrutiny at countless weddings and cocktail parties, I’d gone back to calling myself an administrative assistant. That always cut the conversation off at the knees. Maggie didn’t like that tactic. She told me to stick with saying writer. ‘Dress for the job you want, Shay, not the job you have,’ she always says. Tonight, I could see her point. Jordan was making me feel competitive. Rather than concede, I parried.

      I took another substantial slug of my drink. “At this point, I’ve collaborated on some non-fiction, and have solely written some works for which I didn’t negotiate cover credit.” What was I doing? God, I sounded like an ass. Jordan is an associate editor. He could tell when someone in the business was putting lipstick on a pig.

      “Nice,” he said.

      “The Observer is picking up my column, How to Be an Adult.” Oh my God. Stop talking, I told myself. “Anyway, I’m pitching my real book to my agent on Monday,” I ploughed on. “Brenda Sackler?” I name-dropped without shame.

      He shrugged.

      “Global-Lion Literary?” I tried. Nothing. I drained my glass.

      “The work is sort of a manifesto for post-teens meets new adult non-fiction-y girl’s guide to the city mash-up. You know. That kind of thing.” Dear God, did I just call my book, ‘The Work?’

      “Cool.” Jordan’s eyes browsed the room. A leggy cocktail waitress with a severe blonde bun and sheer blouse buttoned to the neck smiled. “Hi…I didn’t get your name.”

      Her smile broadened. “Sabina.”

      “Sabina,” he pronounced. “I’m a private club member.” He handed her a card, which she read and handed back. “I think we’ll have two more of these and then move into the lounge.”

      “Excellent, Mr. Silver.” She did a yoga squat to table level, hovered knee-to-knee with Jordan and loaded our glasses onto a tray. Through sheer force of abs, she pulled herself to standing and purred, “If I can do anything to make your evening more enjoyable, don’t hesitate to ask.”

      “Can I get a vodka and soda with lemon instead? I’m not so much a brown liquor kinda girl. You know what Thomas Jefferson always said, ‘Whiskey claims to itself alone the exclusive office of sot-making.’” I laughed but they didn’t join in. “Big fan of the former president.”

      Jordan and Chiara looked at me, waiting maybe, I gleaned, for further explanation. “So, no whiskey for me thanks. Just, you know,” I explained, “trying not to be a sot.”

      “Thank you, Sabina,” Jordan released the waitress, and she drifted away.

      “So, are you into heading for the lounge? All the Broadway people swing in here before and after shows to do a set or sing a tune.”

      “Yeah, no. “

      “No?”

      “I don’t like listening to cabaret singers. When I’m up close, I feel like I have to gaze into their eyes and be all like, ‘Yes, that’s great! Keep going!’ It’s exhausting.” I could feel the whiskey warming my toes and loosening my jaw. “Like I’m responsible for making them feel good about themselves, you know? No one’s sitting around going, ‘Yay, Shayla, that paragraph was awesome! Keep writing!’ I wish I had some cheerleaders.”

      Jordan was looking at me with knitted brows.

      “Never mind. Forget I said that. Cabaret singers are great. It’s not their fault. I was just thinking, like, how it would be great to have some applause. Just for me. ‘Go, Shayla.’” I waved imaginary pom-poms. My face was growing hotter. “Not from you, of course.” I could feel Jordan waiting patiently. In a Barry White voice, I said, “You must think Shayla wants some immediate grat-i-fi-ca-shuuun.”

      “What did you say?”

      “Nothing,” I mumbled. “Never mind.”

      “I just…couldn’t really understand what you said. Your voice got strange.”

      “Ffft…forget it. Just the flu.”

      He looked alarmed. “Not the flu. I’m not contagious. Just a cold,” I said, waving it off.

      Sabina had appeared and was setting two Manhattans in front of us. Not a vodka and soda in sight. “Your table is ready in the lounge when you are, Mr. Silver.”

      “Thanks Sabina, let me just settle this.” As he was signing the check, Sabina looked straight at me and shook her head slowly back and forth, slitting her eyes. When Jordan handed back her pen, her eyes widened and she smiled. “Hope to see you again soon, Mr. Silver.” She gathered the check. “The bar area closes at three tonight. That’s when I get off.” She smiled one more time before walking very slowly away.

      “Listen,” I said, pulling on my hat. “Thanks for the drink. But like I said,” I coughed