“Then kindly get your ass over here, sir,” she said. “Friday night, seven o’clock, no tie, please, no excuses. Come prepared to liven up what promises to be a rather drab affair.”
“You wouldn’t know how to do a drab affair.”
“We’ll see about that. This one may be a challenge, even for a woman of my legendary social talents. One of Lee’s boyhood chums is coming to town. Don’t tell anybody I said this, but he’s not exactly my cup of tea. So, will you come help me make the best of it?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’d be honored.”
“It’s been so long since we’ve seen you I’ve forgotten your face. Are you married yet?”
I laughed.
“Going steady with anyone?‘
“Not at the moment.”
I knew why she was asking. Miranda loved informality, but at a sit-down dinner she was a stickler for a proper head count. “I’ve got the perfect lady for you on Friday,” she said.
I paused, then said, “Thank you for the invitation.”
“No, Cliff, thank
I knew that, of course: I had seen their checks in the cash drawer. “I’m always out hunting books,” I said.
“Apparently so. But Lee and I would be pretty shallow people, wouldn’t we, if we wrote off our friends at the first sign of trouble.”
“That was some pretty bad trouble.”
“Yes, it was, but it got you out of being a cop and into the book business. So it wasn’t all bad, was it?”
This was a smaller group than they’d had in the past, with only eight of us, including the Huxleys, at the table. Lee’s boyhood pal turned out to be Hal Archer, the writer and historian who had won a Pulitzer prize six years before, coming from far left field to snatch it away from several favored and far more academically endowed candidates. At the time I was glad he had won: I always pull for the underdog and I had truly admired his book. It was a dense account of two ordinary families in Charleston, South Carolina, during the four years of our civil war. Using recently found documents, letters, and journals, Archer had managed to bring them to life despite having to deal with a mountain of detail. He told, in layman’s words and with the practiced eye of an artist, how they had survived and interacted among themselves and with others in the shattered city. It was an epic story of courage and hardship in the face of a stiff Union blockade, an unrelenting bombardment, and three years of siege, and he told it beautifully.
Archer had published only historical fiction before turning out this riveting true account, but even then I considered him a major talent. I had read him years earlier and had earmarked him at once as a writer who would never waste my time. He had a towering ability to make each word matter and he never resorted to showy prose. He made me live in his story; his work was everything I had always loved about books. With all that going for us, why did I dislike him so intensely the moment I met him?
Such a strong negative reaction often begins in the eyes. Archer’s eyes were dismissive, as if his superiority had been recognized much too late by fools like me and he had paid a damned stiff price for my ignorance. He was right about one thing: it is fashionable to adore an icon after he has become one, but it’s also easy for a writer to become a horse’s ass when fame and riches are suddenly thrust upon him. It was screwy to think that Archer had instantly made me the point man for all the years he had worked in obscurity, and I wanted this impression to be wrong because I had always liked his stuff. But it held up and deepened throughout the evening.
He was the last to arrive, forty-five minutes late. Miranda showed him in at a quarter to eight, accompanied by a pretty young woman she introduced as Erin d’Angelo. I saw Ms. d’Angelo make a gesture of apology to Lee when Archer wasn’t watching, but it was brief and his response was even more so. Miranda was unruffled at the delay in dinner: it would be perfect, I knew, because it always was at her house. She knew her guests and planned for their little quirks accordingly, and that told me yet more about Mr. Archer and his ways. A man who will keep an entire dinner party waiting for most of an hour has a pretty good opinion of himself.
Archer took center stage at once when he arrived; even Lee stood back with what I thought was a look of quiet amusement while his old friend held court. There was some talk about a new book coming but Archer turned that quickly aside, implying that whenever it came, it would certainly be important but he couldn’t talk about it now. A national booksellers association was having its annual meeting in Denver that year and the great man was in town to speak at the banquet, receive an award, and do local media appearances. Ms. d’Angelo was his escort, one of those super-competent people provided by publishers for writers on tour, and occasionally for writers between books if they are important enough and their business is somehow career-related. The Pulitzer had locked in Archer’s importance for the rest of his lifetime, and so he got Ms. d’Angelo to drive him—not forever, I hoped for her sake.
Her name suggested an Irish-Italian clash of cultures but to me she looked only like the best of America. She might have been a freshman college student straight from the heart of the country, a professional virgin with taffy-colored hair, a lovely oval face, and big eyes that radiated mischief. “She’s actually a thirty-year-old lawyer,” Miranda told me during a quiet moment in the kitchen. “She’s extremely bright and as tough as she needs to be.”
“What does that mean?”
“She could go very far in law is what it means. Sky’s the limit, if she wanted to.”
“That sounds like pretty deep exasperation I hear in your voice.”
