the light and looks around the room, the room where Emma works. She goes over to her desk. It’s neat and ordered, with a pile of letters, a list of things to do, a glass filled with pens and pencils. There’s no idiosyncratic trinket, no picture, no struggling plant, not even a coffee mug. Anne slides open the top drawer. There’s a box of Marlboros, a worn paperback copy of Heart of Darkness, a pack of chewing gum, paper clips, rubber bands. Anne sees the corner of a newspaper clipping that has been pushed to the back of the drawer. She reaches in and lifts it out. It’s a photo of her and Charles, taken at the library’s Literary Lions dinner. There’s an X scrawled across Anne’s face.
Her heart pounding, Anne quickly replaces the clipping, closes the drawer, and leaves the room.
“Charles?” she calls from the foyer. There’s no answer, yet she feels his presence in the apartment. She walks down the hall and checks the guest bedroom. Empty. Then she looks into the study. All the lights are off, but as her eyes grow accustomed to the dark, she makes out a figure lying on the couch. “Charles?”
“Don’t,” he answers.
“Don’t what?”
“Turn on the light.”
Anne suddenly wishes she’d put on her slippers; her feet are cold on the wood floor. She takes a cautious step onto the edge of the carpet. It’s a moonless night.
“I just wanted to say good night,” she says.
There is a long silence before Charles says, “It was a nice dinner. Thank you.”
“Did you like everyone?”
“Sure. Swell crowd.”
“You’re mad at Nina, aren’t you?” Anne waits for an answer, and when she doesn’t get one, she adds, “You barely said three words to her all evening.”
“Anne, she should have seen the paperback sale coming. She should have had a strategy.”
“I agree it was disappointing, darling, but-”
“It wasn’t disappointing, it was a disaster.”
“Charles, I’m sure Nina-”
“It’s always a mistake to mix business with friendship.”
“Well, isn’t that what you’re doing with that secretary?”
Charles sits up, turns on a lamp, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “For Christ’s sake, Anne, don’t bring that up.”
“I have a right to know what’s going on between the two of you.”
“What’s going on is that I find, for some strange reason, that having her around is good for my work right now. When that ceases to be the case, she’ll be gone.”
“I don’t like having her in the house. I think she’s dishonest.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Are you sleeping with her?”
Charles gets up and crosses to Anne, puts his hands on her shoulders. “You’re kidding, of course.” When she doesn’t answer but just keeps looking at him, he adds, “No, I’m not sleeping with her.”
Anne almost believes him. She suddenly feels terribly sad.
“I think I’m pregnant.”
Charles drops his hands. “You’re not sure?”
“No, Charles, I’m not sure.”
“Well, then. When will you find out?”
“Are you happy?”
“I will be. Of course. The timing is… it’s fine. When will you know for sure?”
“I’ve been putting off finding out. Maybe the timing is wrong.”
“I don’t have to tell you how preoccupied I am.”
“I’m cold.”
“Let me close the window.”
After he does, he comes back and kisses Anne on the forehead. “We’ve wanted a baby for so long, haven’t we? It’s wonderful news.”
“I suppose I should find out.”
“Yes, Anne, do that. Find out.”
“We’ll have to think of a name. Do you like Eliza? Or Luke?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Charles walks Anne back to the bedroom, and she climbs into bed.
“Listen, I’m feeling restless. Would you mind if I went out for a walk?” he asks.
“Don’t be long.”
After he’s gone, Anne turns out her bedside lamp and lies there in the dark.
28
Charles and Emma stand at the bow of the Staten Island Ferry as it returns to Manhattan. Charles has always loved this boat ride. He finds that the salt air and the panorama of water and sky, bridges and boats, has a way of clearing his head, loosening up his thinking, giving him a fresh perspective on the problem at hand.
He’s hoping it will have a similar effect on Emma. They’re at a crucial point in her book: Zack is about to break down under his mother’s abuse. Charles is making aggressive changes, often rewriting whole paragraphs. He knows he’s driving her hard, but he also knows it’s good for her. Just as Portia guided him, he has to guide Emma.
Charles knows what will happen if he tells Nina that Emma wrote the chapter, shows her more of the manuscript: she’ll want to start selling the book, get a buzz going, haul Emma off to lunches with editors. Emma is simply too fragile to handle that kind of exposure. No, it’s best if they remain closed in, working in secret, and then, when the book is truly as good as it can and will be, they’ll emerge triumphant to the world. Just as he dedicated Life and Liberty to Portia, Emma will dedicate The Sky Is Falling to him. He’ll be associated with her success, given credit for passing on the mantle to the next generation.
It’s a chilly day and the sun keeps disappearing behind the clouds, darkening the waters around them. With the wind whipping her hair, Emma seems content. He leans his shoulder into hers and is pleased when she leans back.
“How many people do you think are making love in this city right now?” Charles asks.
“A small fraction of the number who wish they were,” Emma answers with a wry smile.
They lean into each other a little more.
“Charles…?”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, what is it?”
“Well, I was just thinking about… this is hard for me. Your wife.”
“What about her?”
“Has she ever, you know, had an affair?”
Charles laughs. “I highly doubt it.” Emma stares down at the churlish waters. “What makes you ask that question?”
Emma shrugs.
And then, from behind them, a woman’s voice: “Emma?”
Charles and Emma turn to see a pregnant young woman walking across the deck with a young man, obviously her husband, in tow. Emma’s expression darkens.
“Is that you, Emma?” the young woman asks. She has short dirty-blond hair and wears no makeup, has a kind face with large gray eyes.
“Sue?” Emma says with a nervous laugh…
