whipping wildly in her grasp.
“Look at this fish, Charles. It’s fighting, it’s fighting for its life.” In a swift, practiced move she pulls out the hook and holds up the struggling fish. “As long as we breathe, that’s what we have to do. We have to fight. We have no choice. There’s a price tag on every gift.”
Portia tosses the fish back into the water. Spared, it plunges down to the depths, shimmery and alive.
“Now get back down to that city and get to work.”
9
Charles tosses his bag on a bench in the foyer and walks through the kitchen and down the long hallway that leads to his two-room office. He’s brought up short by the sight of a young woman sitting at the desk in the outer office. Plain as toast, she’s wearing a gray flannel skirt, a cream blouse, and a navy sweater-vest. Her wavy brown hair is pulled back with a small band and she has on no makeup at all, as far as Charles can tell. She looks up from a copy of Bleak House, startled by his abrupt arrival. She stands quickly, flustered and awkward, smoothing out her skirt.
“That’s the one Dickens I’ve never read,” Charles says.
“I have this stupid rule about finishing every book I start,” the young woman says.
“I suppose that’s honorable. Let me guess-you’re that whiz of a temp who’s going to whip my office into shape and turn my life around.”
A furious blush flies up the girl’s pale neck and Charles feels a familiar surge of power. She’s so harmless, so hopeless, no doubt incredibly efficient. And she has a certain clumsy charm. It’s so like Anne to do this without getting his okay. For a moment, Charles considers sending the girl home.
“Your wife called my agency. She told me to wait for you to get home, that you’d arrive sometime this afternoon.”
Charles glances around him. The room is strewn with tottering piles of unanswered mail, unfiled contracts, unread manuscripts, newspapers and magazines filled with articles he never gotten around to clipping. “Well, as a matter of fact, I do want to get this mess organized,” he says.
“I think I could be of some help with that.”
“Would you like to see the rest of the operation?” he asks.
The young woman nods and Charles unlocks his inner office. He’s proud of this room, even in its current disheveled condition. There are the framed posters of his book jackets; the photographs of Charles with everyone from Jack Nicholson, who starred in the movie of Life and Liberty, to Francois Mitterrand, who made him a member of the French Legion of Honor; the Eames bookshelves filled with foreign-language editions of his work; the Frank Lloyd Wright desk. Two windows look out over the treetops of Central Park.
“What a beautiful place to write,” the young woman says with undisguised awe.
“I wrote my first book in a freezing trailer outside of Hanover, New Hampshire.”
“ Life and Liberty?”
“Yes.”
“I loved that book.”
“It must have seemed like ancient history to you.”
“No,” she says, suddenly very serious and resolute. “It seemed timeless.” And then, as if taken aback by the confidence in her own voice, she looks down, running a fingertip over her thumbnail, frowning. When she looks up she manages a wan, haunted smile. “I should start on the outer office. I don’t want to disturb you.”
Charles studies her a moment before answering. “I’m not a shrinking violet. If you’re disturbing me, I’ll let you know. Basically, I work from seven to four. Aside from that, I like my coffee black, when I smoke I smoke Marlboros, when I drink I drink Chivas, and when I’m on a roll I crave hot dogs and stacks of french fries slathered with mayonnaise. Come on, I’ll show you the filing system. Oh, by the way, I didn’t get your name.”
The young woman looks at Charles and he’s taken aback by her arresting eyes. Up close, he can see that they’re an iridescent green, lightly flecked with brown. They meet his gaze and hold it.
“It’s Emma. Emma Bowles.”
10
Charles stands by the bar in the living room mixing himself a Scotch and water and looking out at the autumn glory of Central Park. There’s something about the girl, Emma, that intrigues him. Those eyes. The nervous habit she has of rubbing her thumbnails with her fingertips. He finds her touching. It’ll be nice having her around for a while.
The front door opens and Anne glides in, breathless, wearing a green suit with navy trim. She goes to Charles and gives him a kiss, avoids looking him in the eye.
“Welcome home, stranger,” she says.
“It’s good to be back.”
“Am I interrupting something?”
“Of course not. Drink?”
“Yes, please-ginger ale.”
“You look terrific,” he says. She doesn’t really; she looks tense and there are dark circles under her eyes.
“I got a trim today. A first: Marcus came into the office to do it. I felt so decadent, like Nancy Reagan. Or Madonna.” She slips off her shoes and tucks her feet under her as she sinks down on one of the two enormous white sofas that face each other in front of the fireplace. “Next I’ll be putting in a little private gym, or maybe a whole mini-spa, with one of those tiny pools that churn a current against you.”
Anne’s got the charm machine cranked up to overdrive-one of her diversionary tactics. She still hasn’t looked him in the eye. No doubt she’s angry at him for leaving in the middle of the night, angry and also waiting for him to mention the girl, Emma, to thank her for hiring her. There’s a silence as each waits for the other to make the next move. Charles yields.
“Thank you for hiring that secretary. I think you’re right, it will be easier with things sorted out in there.”
“You’re welcome,” Anne says simply, smart enough not to milk her small triumph. “She’s really quite bright and efficient.”
“She seems to be.”
“She certainly didn’t get where she is on her charm. Although she does have a certain wounded-fawn je ne sais quoi. In any case, I’m glad you think she’ll work out.”
“I do. She’s unobtrusive.”
“I must say though, Charles, I wish you’d woken me. I worry when you disappear like that.”
His work is one issue that isn’t open to compromise. “I had to go. I went.”
“And how’s the great lady?” Portia brings out Anne’s insecurity. She’s convinced his mentor dismisses her as shallow and unworthy, feels Charles would have been better off marrying some bookish trust-fund baby who lived only to nurture his fiery muse, who would create a cozy cocoon in some posh Vermont hollow, complete with a rustic studio out back and two apple-cheeked children.
Charles sits on the arm of the opposite sofa and runs a fingertip along the rim of his glass. “She’s herself.”
“And did she give you what you needed?”
Charles resents that question, as if something as complex and painful and important as his work can be reduced to a yes or no. He crosses to the window. The October dark has arrived and the lights have come on in Central Park. The cars zipping through the park look like mad Tinkertoys. Finally he turns and looks at Anne. There’s genuine concern in her face. “It was a good trip.”
“I’m glad, darling. Phoebe adored Capitol Offense, was up all night reading it, now everyone in the office is
