“Because, darling, I want to take romantic weekend trips with you. The freedom it offers would be wonderful for us. And besides, ESPN will pay for me to garage it in the city. So, any preferences?”
“Not really.”
“Leigh, come on. We’ll be using it a lot together. You really have no opinion?”
“I don’t know…the blue ones, I guess.” She knew she was being impossible, but she really, honestly didn’t care. Russell was going to obsess over cars regardless of what she liked or didn’t, so she really didn’t want to get involved.
“The ‘blue ones’? You’re being a bitch.”
Relieved that he’d finally pushed back-an all-too-rare event-she’d relented a little. “Henry drives a blue Prius and loves it-says it gets amazing gas mileage. Someone said that the hybrid Escape is good, too-an SUV that doesn’t look like a tank.”
“A
“I don’t know. It doesn’t have to be. I also like that curvy Nissan… What’s it called? A Mural?”
“A Murano. Are you serious?”
“Actually, I already told you I couldn’t care less, but you’ve forced the conversation. Get whatever one you like.”
A long soliloquy ensued wherein Russell extolled the many virtues of the Range Rover. He covered its interior, exterior, horsepower, exclusivity, stylishness, and practicality in bad weather (notably leaving out any mention of gas mileage or the difficulty of getting one serviced, but Leigh refrained from pointing that out). He instinctively fell into his on-air personality and droned on and on: baritone voice animated but controlled, gaze steady, posture perfect. It was precisely what made him so charismatic and engaging on-air that could make him so grating when they were alone. She wondered what all those girls who wrote to his Web site and sent seductive pictures of themselves would think if they got to see this Russell: still gorgeous, admittedly, but also smug and not a little boring.
He had just finished telling her about some basketball player’s commitment to the troops when they pulled into the driveway. Her parents had grudgingly left the city for Greenwich in the 1980s when Leigh’s grandmother passed away, leaving the family home to her only son. Leigh’s father was still a junior editor and her mother had only just finished law school, so the chance to live rent- and mortgage-free-even if it was, regrettably, off-island-was just too good to pass up. Leigh had lived in the beautiful old home since preschool, played tag in its surrounding woods and hosted birthday parties at its pool, and lost her virginity in the cool, cavelike basement to a boy whose name she remembered but whose face had since blurred; and yet the five-bedroom house hadn’t felt like home in many years.
Leigh typed the security code (1-2-3-4, naturally) into the garage-side keypad and motioned for Russell to follow. Part of her was disappointed that her mother hadn’t raced outside to grab Leigh’s hand and stare at her engagement ring and wipe away tears as she kissed her only daughter and future son-in-law, but she was self- aware enough to admit that she would have been irritated and embarrassed had her mother done precisely that. Mrs. Eisner wasn’t exactly the gushing, teary type, and in this way mother and daughter were similar.
“Mom? Dad? We’re here!” She led Russell through the front hallway, which had long ago ceased being a mudroom and had been transformed into an elegant foyer, and walked into the kitchen. “Where is everyone?”
“Coming!” she heard her mother call from the family room. A moment later she appeared before them, looking casually elegant in one of her trillion Polo collared shirts, khaki capris, and Tod’s driving moccasins.
“Leigh! Russell. Congratulations. Oh, I am so thrilled for you both.” She embraced her daughter and leaned up to kiss Russell’s cheek. “Now, come sit down so I can properly examine this sparkler. I can’t believe I had to wait twelve full days to see this!”
“I’m so sorry I didn’t wait for you and Mr. Eisner to return, but I very much wanted to propose on our one-year anniversary,” Russell rushed to explain.
Her parents had returned late the night before from their annual three-week June pilgrimage to Europe and had insisted that the happy couple join them for a celebratory dinner.
“Please,” her mother waved at the air. “We understand. Besides, no one really needs their parents for these things now, do they?”
Russell cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable enough that Leigh felt a momentary pang of sympathy. She decided to rescue him. “Mom, how about a glass of wine? Is there some in the fridge?”
Mrs. Eisner pointed to the mahogany bar in the corner of the den. “There should be a couple bottles of chardonnay in the wine cooler. Your father likes it, but I find it a tad dry. If you would prefer red, you’ll need to get it from the cellar.”
“I think we’d probably rather have red,” Leigh said, mostly for Russell’s benefit. She knew that he hated white wine-chardonnay most of all-but would never express such a preference in front of her parents.
“You two visit for a minute,” Russell said with an award-winning (an Emmy, to be precise, bestowed last year for “Outstanding Studio Show-Weekly”) smile. “I’ll go get the wine.”
Mrs. Eisner clasped Leigh’s left hand and pulled it directly under the table lamp. “My, my, he certainly did his homework, didn’t he? And of course, so did you. Russell will make such a wonderful husband. You must be so pleased.”
Leigh paused for a moment, uncertain of what she meant. It was implied that Leigh had been poised and ready for this moment her entire life, that this ring signified success in a way that valedictorian, Cornell, or becoming a star editor at Brook Harris never could. She loved Russell-really, she did-but it rankled that her own mother considered him Leigh’s greatest achievement to date.
“It’s all so exciting,” Leigh offered with an extra-large smile.
Her mother sighed. “Well, I should hope so! It’s so nice to see you happy for once. You’ve worked so hard for so long now… Suffice it to say that this didn’t come a moment too soon.”
“Mother, do you realize that you just-” But before she could say
“Leigh,” her father said in a voice so steady and quiet it was almost a whisper. “Leigh, Leigh, Leigh.” His hair was now completely gray, although, as with many men, it made him look not so much older as more distinguished. Same with the deep lines etched in his forehead and around his mouth and eyes-they conveyed a feeling of wisdom and experience, not the air of a problem that should be dealt with at the plastic surgeon’s next available appointment. Even his sweater-a three-decades-old navy cardigan with leather elbow patches and toggle buttons- seemed somehow more intelligent than the sweaters most men wore these days.
He stood in the doorway next to the piano and gazed at her in a way that always made her feel scrutinized, like he was deciding whether or not he liked her new haircut or approved of her outfit. Growing up, it was her mother who made the most immediate rules regarding their daughter-whether eyeliner was permitted, what was appropriate attire for a school dance, how late she could stay out on a school night-but it was only her father who could make her feel brilliant or idiotic, gorgeous or hideously ugly, charmed or wretched, with the most casual look or comment. Of course, while such comments could appear casual, they never were. Every word he uttered was considered, weighed, and chosen with deliberateness, and woe to the person who failed to select her words with such precision. Although Leigh couldn’t recall a single occasion when her father had raised his voice, she remembered the countless times he had dissected her arguments or opinions with a quiet ruthlessness that intimidated her to this day.
“He’s an editor,” her mother would soothe when Leigh got upset as a child. “Words are his life. He’s careful with them. He loves them, loves the language. Don’t take it personally, darling.” And Leigh would nod and say she understood and make a greater effort at watching what she said, while trying not to take any of it personally.
“Hi, Dad,” she said almost shyly. She had seen both Emmy and Adriana call their fathers “Daddy,” but it seemed impossible to imagine calling her own father something so saccharine. Even though he’d retired six years earlier, Charles Eisner would be an imposing editor-in-chief until the day he died. He’d ruled with a firm hand during the twelve years as head of Paramour Publishing-none of the “handholding warm fuzzy shit,” in his words, of today’s big publishing houses-and he’d remained consistently aloof and detached at home, as much as he could manage.
