She remembered thinking, This is his world. She’d felt like an alien then, and she did now.
Everyone in the city seemed intense and full of purpose—the food vendors on the street corners, the black-clad young execs chattering into cell phones as they rushed along the crowded sidewalk. Even the smokers clustered around their sand-filled ashtrays seemed busy and important.
Maybe in time she would feel a part of this rushing scene, but for now, she was simply going through the motions. She turned down Forty-Seventh Street, bustling with shoppers, diamond merchants and brokers, many of them Hasidic Jews in traditional long black coats and brimmed hats, earlocks and beards framing their faces. Diamond jewelry glittered in the windows of shop after shop. On one corner, she noticed a peculiar smell—the hot reek of exhaust and the smoky-sweet aroma of roasting nuts. She spotted a little girl with a woman, hailing a taxi. The woman was hurrying; the child stumbled as the mother half dragged along.
Watching them, Jenny had the most extraordinary sensation of déjà vu. She could hear, as clearly as a voice spoken in her ear, a clipped command: “Come along, Jenny. You have to keep up. We have a flight to catch.”
“I don’t want to fly away.”
“Fine, I’ll leave you at home.”
Jenny felt, for a moment, as though she’d become detached from her own life. Though the memory was dim, like a half-remembered dream, she had the eeriest notion that she had been here before.
In the next block, she watched the numbers on the buildings decrease, and found the address where she was to meet Philip Bellamy and Martin Greer, a man Philip had known since college, who was now a successful literary agent with his own firm.
As Jenny surrendered her coat, hat and gloves to the cloakroom of the restaurant, she felt the unpleasant tickle of panic. Oh, come on, she thought. Not now. Talk about your lousy timing. She contemplated taking a pill for it but dismissed the idea. For the next hour, she would simply ignore the symptoms.
She wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt, pasted a smile on her face and approached the podium. “Has Mr. Bellamy arrived yet?” she asked.
“I’ve just seated him.” The Eastern European hostess, as slender as a pencil in a sleek skirt and blouse, led Jenny to the table where Philip and Martin awaited.
Both men stood to greet her, Philip with a brief kiss on her cheek and Martin with a handshake. She prayed he didn’t notice the sweat.
“Thank you for seeing me,” she said, taking a seat.
“It’s my pleasure,” Martin said. He had the pleasant and resonant voice of a radio announcer.
Jenny looked around the beautiful restaurant. It was airy and light with a view of the building’s atrium, lush with tree-size tropical plants. They had been given prime seating—Martin and Philip were persons of consequence.
“How do you like New York so far?” Martin asked.
“It’s fascinating. Olivia’s apartment is great.” So much in New York was over the top and larger than life, but Olivia’s place was a comfortable oasis in an adorable brownstone filled with chintz-covered furniture, homey houseplants, bright Fiestaware in the china cupboard. Olivia had combined her good taste with the natural warmth of her personality, reflected in the cozy, sunny apartment.
“I’ve had the pleasure of reading some of your columns and essays,” Martin said, turning businesslike.
Jenny held her breath. She felt Philip doing the same.
“And here’s the thing,” Martin continued, leaning toward her a little. “I’m a fan. I like the material. And I’m not just saying that because Philip would strangle me if I didn’t. I’m saying that because there’s something special in your writing.”
“I don’t know what to say,” she told him. “I’m flattered, really.”
Martin held up his hand. “I’m just getting started. Like I said, I’m a fan. I could feel the atmosphere of this little family bakery as if I was right there. You brought your grandparents to life for me. I could hear their voices and picture them in my mind’s eye. I’m no baker but the recipes make sense to me. Your writing is lively, authentic and unpretentious.”
Jenny was still in the clutches of the panic attack. She could feel her face burning. Perhaps he would think it was just excitement. “Thank you,” she said a bit breathlessly. She took a quick sip of her Voss water. “But at the end of everything you said, I hear a great big ‘however’ coming.”
Martin and Philip exchanged a glance. “You have good hearing,” Martin said. “Very perceptive.”
“So what’s the however?” she asked.
The waiter came for their orders. She barely glanced at the menu, and opted for one of the specials, which contained at least three things she’d never heard of.
“The however is this,” Martin said. “You’ve given us the bakery. The recipes, the characters involved—your grandparents and co-workers, the quirky customers. It’s all there. What’s missing is one key ingredient.”
“What’s that?”
“You.”
Jenny hadn’t expected this. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You need to be more present. Not just a narrator but a character yourself. Sure, people are going to like these vignettes, the recipes and character sketches. But in order for this book to be extraordinary, we need to see you in it. We need to see the things that define you, your dreams and emotions, and what this place represents for you. Show us your heart.”
“I don’t really consider myself interesting enough to write about.”
“Then you’re not thinking hard enough.” Martin was clearly unmoved by the fact that the whole notion distressed her completely. “You’ve given us little tantalizing glimpses of key things that happened in your life. The bitter-chocolate cake your grandmother made every year on your mother’s birthday. How could the reader not want to hear more? And the fiftieth-anniversary cake you yourself made for Philip’s parents. I’m thinking there’s much more to the story. I mean, come on—somebody orders a cake, and it leads
