“Acky, he really doesn’t need to know that.”
“You told him I swept you off of your feet. I was merely elaborating.
“You were not. You were being disgusting.”
Over at the tavern table, the young man from Panorama was still negotiating on his cell phone: “I understand you perfectly-Quentin wants a limo. I’m just a little taken aback, because Oliver has already agreed to a town car. His people don’t want to make this into a big glitzy deal. This is not the damned Golden Globes. Those were Oliver’s exact words.”
His companion bit her lip as she continued to labor at her laptop.
“Feel like a game of eight-ball, Mitch?” Aaron asked, blinking at the vintage pool table.
“You’re on.”
Les racked the balls for them while Mitch and Aaron chose cue sticks from the rack mounted on the wall.
“How about a small wager just to make it interesting? Say, a hundred dollars?”
“Let’s make it ten,” Mitch countered. “So there won’t be any hard feelings.”
Aaron let out a derisive snort. “What are you, short on nerve?”
“Acky, he’s trying to be a gentleman.”
“Really? I never realized that ‘gentleman’ was synonymous with ‘wimp.’”
“Actually, why don’t we make it five?”
“What is your problem?” Aaron demanded.
“He’s trying to spare your feelings, if you ask me,” Les said.
“I don’t recall asking you,” Aaron snapped.
“Why don’t you break, Aaron?” Mitch offered, chalking his cue.
“Don’t you want to flip a coin or some such thing?”
“That’s okay. Go right ahead.”
“Suit yourself. But, frankly, you carry this nice-guy act a bit far. It’s somewhat embarrassing.” Aaron broke thunderously but to no avail-he sank nothing.
Mitch promptly went to work. “Three-ball, corner pocket,” he said, dropping it crisply.
“Kindly explain something to me, Mitch,” Aaron said as he watched him line up his next shot. “Why don’t you get an honest television job instead of writing for that biased liberal rag of yours?”
Mitch’s newspaper was by no means biased. It was scrupulously even-handed, and Aaron knew this. He was just trying to get a rise out of Mitch so he could show his pretty blond wife how devastatingly clever he was.
“Nine-ball, side pocket,” he said, sinking it.
“Seriously, you need to get your face on TV,” Aaron persisted. “The air time will double your book sales.”
“I’m a journalist, not an entertainer,” said Mitch, who had turned down a number of offers to review movies on television.
“God, that is so beneath you, Mitch. Those labels are demonstrably obsolete. We are communicators, nothing more or less. Accept it. Take advantage of it. You’re well-spoken, make a nice impression. And compared to Roger Ebert, hell, you’re Brad Pitt.” Aaron let out a big, booming laugh. “I like that line. I’ll have to use it.”
“You just did, Acky,” Carly pointed out tartly.
“I meant on the air,” he growled at her. “Mitch, I’m privileged to know any number of prominent people at CNN, Fox News… I’d be happy to put out some feelers for you.”
“That’s very nice of you, Aaron, but I’m fine right where I am.”
“But how can you be? That’s not possible.”
“I assure you, it’s very possible.”
“Acky, you’re doing it again.”
Aaron arched his eyebrow at his wife. “Doing what?”
“Laboring under the misapprehension that someone is unhappy because he’s not you,” she said. “Mitch is a smart man. Good at what he does, successful at it. If he wanted to be doing TV, he’d be doing TV. Since he’s not, that means he doesn’t want to. So shut up about it, okay?”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself, Carly. All except for the shut-up part.” Mitch scoped out the table, observing that Aaron was glowering at her, red-faced. Acky did not like to be spoken to that way. “Seven-ball, corner pocket.” It was a long rail shot, but Mitch sank it.
By now the man from Panorama was done with his calls and charging toward Mitch with his hand held out. “Spence Sibley, Mitch,” he exclaimed. “Sorry about all of this studio business. You must think I’m ultra-rude.”
“No, not at all.”
“I’ve just got so many last-minute details coming together at once. The studio’s West Coast contingent jets into Teeterboro in the morning, filled to the overhead luggage rack with heavy-hitters. Plus Tve got carload upon carload of people coming out from New York. Many of these people are directors who, believe me, have egos that are roughly akin to Afghan warlords. Stars are cupcakes in comparison.” Spence Sibley was about twenty-eight, boyishly handsome and innately self-assured. He had an open, clear-eyed face, a good strong jaw, and possibly the cleanest shave Mitch had ever seen. In fact, he was clean all over. Clean blond crew cut. Clean symmetrical features. Not particularly tall, but he looked as if he were a runner or maybe a swimmer. He practically hummed with good health. He was also exceedingly polished in that way successful corporate people so often are-upon closer inspection, his open face revealed not one thing about the man inside. Spence wore a camel’s hair blazer over a burgundy cable-stitched crew neck, perfectly creased tan slacks of heavyweight twill and polished chestnut- colored ankle boots. “Mitch, may I introduce you to Hannah Lane? Hannah is Ada’s personal assistant.”
“Pleased to meet you, Hannah,” said Mitch, thinking her name sounded familiar.
Hannah clambered awkwardly to her feet, nearly knocking over the tavern table. “Yeah, right, back at you,” she blurted out nervously. Hannah was about the same age as Spence, tall, coltish and incredibly ill at ease. Her features were striking. She had deep-set eyes, terrific cheekbones and a long, straight nose. Her look was even more striking. Hannah resembled a saucy 1920s Parisienne with her schoolboy-length henna hair, jaunty beret and bright red lipstick. The glasses she had on were thick and round and retro. She wore a bulky turtleneck and tweed slacks, a matching tweed jacket thrown over her shoulders the same way Ada’s was. In fact, it was as if Hannah had patterned her entire style after an old photo of the great director. Mitch couldn’t help wonder if she ordinarily looked completely different. “I just love your work,” she said to Mitch effusively. “Especially your weekend pieces. You’re part of my Sunday ritual. First church, then Mitch. I always read you. Always.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Same here, Mitch,” echoed Spence. “I’ve been reading you since I was at New Haven.”
Mitch, a Columbia alum, had to smile at this. Somehow, Yalies never failed to shoehorn their academic pedigree into the first sixty seconds of a conversation. It was one of the few things he could count on in life.
“Mind you, I’ll have to start reading you on the Web next month,” Spence said. “They’re moving me out to the Coast. I’ve been promoted to vice president of marketing. Still hasn’t quite sunk in, actually. The whole picking up and moving thing. I’ve never lived more than ninety minutes from New York in my whole life. But I’m plenty psyched.”
Jory entered the taproom now with a tray arrayed with pate, cheese and crackers.
“How on earth did you know I was starving?” Spence asked her as he helped himself to brie.
“Growing boys are always hungry,” she answered lightly.
Mitch and Hannah sampled the pate, which was excellent.
“I’ve been up here since Tuesday, trying to pull everything together,” Spence went on, chomping on the cheese. “Kind of a nostalgia trip for me, really. When I was a kid, the whole Sibley clan used to descend on Astrid’s during leaf-peeping season-my aunts, uncles, cousins. We always had a blast.” Spence reached for more brie from Jory’s tray. “In fact, I spent some time in this area when I was in New Haven.” Again with the Yale. “A classmate of mine belonged to the Dorset Yacht Club. We used to hang out on his dad’s Bertram. Is that outrageous diner still there on Old Shore Road?”
“McGee’s,” said Mitch, nodding. “Sure is.”
“Great fried clams.”
“The best,” Jory agreed, moving on to Aaron and Carly with the tray. Neither of them wanted anything. She set it down on the bar and returned to the kitchen.
