He laughed. His voice sounded like he’d just woken up. “Yeah, but who’s ever actually on time? When I say noon, I really mean three.”
“Oh, really?” she asked. “Because when I say noon, I actually mean noon.”
He laughed again. “Got it,” he said. “I’m going to get dressed, and I’ll be right there. Have a coffee. Try to relax. We’ll get right to work, I promise.”
She ordered yet another coffee and flipped to the Thursday Style section someone had left on the counter.
She heard his entrance before she saw him, since she was staring fixedly at the newspaper, pretending to be completely absorbed in an article on natural boar-bristle hairbrushes. All around her, the restaurant patrons—all locals and, from the look of it, not associates of the Billy Joel set—waved and called out their hellos. One particularly crusty-looking old guy in workman’s overalls and a sewn-on name tag—the original, not one of the retro ones on sale in the Bloomingdale’s young men’s department—that read SMITH, raised his coffee mug and winked at Jesse.
“Morning, sir,” Jesse said, clapping the man on the back.
“Chief,” the man said with a nod and a swig of coffee.
“Still on for Monday night?”
The man nodded again. “Monday.”
Jesse made his way down the breakfast counter, greeting each and every person along the way, before taking the empty seat next to Leigh. Although she couldn’t pinpoint exactly why, Leigh thought he looked better today than he had at either of their previous meetings. Still not hot or even handsome in the conventional sense, Jesse again looked casually rumpled and, as stupid as it sounded, cool. It was partly the way he dressed—a slim-cut vintage plaid shirt with Levi’s that looked custom-cut for his body—but it was also something more than that, something in the way he carried himself. Everything about him screamed “effortless,” but unlike the self-conscious grunge of the nineties or deliberate bed-head hair, Jesse’s look was genuine.
She realized she was staring.
“What’s going on Monday?” she asked quickly; it was the first thing that came to mind.
“Not into the usual niceties, huh?” Jesse asked with a smile. “Me, neither. Monday is poker night and it’s Smith’s turn to host. He lives in a minuscule studio apartment above the village liquor store, so he arranged for all of us to meet at the East Hampton Airport—he’s a flight mechanic there. We’re going to play in the hangar, which I’m rather looking forward to. It will be doubly festive since we’ll be celebrating both the end of summer and the end of the Great Asshole Invasion—at least until next year.”
Leigh shook her head. Maybe all the gossip and tabloids were right, and Jesse really had lost his mind. A few years earlier he was jet-setting on international book tours, gorging himself on the world’s finest food and clothes and women, using his newfound literary fame to chase every next hot party, and now he was sequestered away in this working-class neighborhood of eastern Long Island, playing poker in deserted airplane hangars with mechanics? The new book had better be damn good, that’s all Leigh knew.
As if reading her mind, Jesse said, “You’re desperate to get started, aren’t you? Just say it.”
“I am desperate to get started. I’m only out here for two days and a night and I still haven’t the first clue what you’re working on.”
“Let’s go, then.” He slid a $10 bill to the woman behind the counter and led the way outside. The instant his feet hit gravel he lit a cigarette. “I’d offer you one, but something tells me you’re not a smoker.”
He didn’t wait for her to answer; instead, he jumped into his Jeep.
“Follow me. The house is only a few minutes from here, but there are lots of turns.”
“You sure I shouldn’t check into the hotel first?” Leigh asked, twisting a piece of her ponytail around her finger. She was staying at the historic American Hotel in Sag Harbor village, a place that was just as famous for its clubby, wood-paneled, old-fashioned hospitality as it was for its mammoth martinis.
Jesse leaned out his window. “You’re welcome to try, but I called on my way over here and they insist that check-in isn’t until three. I’d be more than happy to wait till then, trust me….”
“No, no, let’s get moving. I’ll take a break this afternoon to check in and then we can get back to work.”
“Sounds like a dream.” He rolled up the window and threw the Jeep into reverse, the back wheels kicking up dust in his wake.
Leigh rushed to her rental and pulled out behind him. He turned left onto Sagg Road and drove straight through the village and past the hotel, which he indicated to Leigh with a wave in his rearview. The main street was absolutely adorable. There were quaint boutiques, family-owned restaurants, and local fresh-food markets interspersed with the occasional art gallery and wine shop. Parents pulled kids and vegetables in red wagons. Pedestrians had the right of way. People seemed to be smiling for no reason. Everyone had a dog.
They drove through town and toward the bay, which was fronted by a marina straight out of central casting, and then over a bridge before careening back into the winding, wooded roads. Jesse’s driveway was half a mile long and unpaved and the glints of light that darted through the trees gave it an ethereal feel. As they drove a bit farther, Leigh spotted what looked like a guesthouse off the side of the path. It was a small white cottage with blue shutters and a charming little porch for rocking and reading. Another five hundred yards beyond that was an elaborate—and brand-new—children’s outdoor play area. It wasn’t one of the brightly colored plastic Fisher-Price ones, either; rather, it appeared almost hand-carved from a rich mahogany and included a rock-climbing wall, tree house, canopied cupola, sandbox, kiddie-sized picnic table, and two slides. This left Leigh momentarily breathless. She knew Jesse had a wife (although he had given Leigh the impression that she wasn’t in the Hamptons), but she had never, ever envisioned him as a father. Of course it made complete sense—it would almost be strange if he weren’t—but something about seeing proof of this made her feel vaguely irritated and a little disappointed.
By the time they reached the house, her heart had started to beat faster and her breath began to shorten in the telltale signs of anxiety. In front of her, Jesse climbed out of his Jeep and approached her car. She felt a sweat break out on her forehead, and she wished she could be parked on her couch, reading a manuscript or chatting with Russell about his upcoming interview with Tony Romo. It’d be worth it even if he wanted to have sex and watch SportsCenter and the upstairs neighbor was hosting a dance party full of leg brace–wearing guests. Anywhere but right here, right now.
Jesse opened Leigh’s car door for her and led her down a walkway to the front porch, a wide expanse of open space decorated with only a hammock and a love-seat swing. Beside the swing was an empty bottle of Chianti and a single dirty wineglass.
“Are your children here? I’d love to meet them,” Leigh lied.
Jesse looked around the porch, appearing confused for a minute, and then smiled knowingly, like he could read her mind. “Oh, you mean the playground? It’s for my nephews—not my own.”
Something about the way he said this seemed definitive; even though she told herself she didn’t care either way—and despite being well aware that it was rude and way too personal—she pushed it. “Does that mean you just happen not to have kids, or you don’t want them ever?”
He laughed and shook his head while he opened the front door. “Jesus Christ, you say whatever you’re thinking, don’t you?”
In for a penny, in for a pound. “Well?” she asked.
“No, I don’t want children. Not now, and not ever.”
Leigh held up her hands in mock defense. “Looks like I hit a nerve.”
Jesse tried to suppress his smile, but Leigh caught a glimpse of it anyway. “Anything else you’d like to know? How I’m eating, how I’m sleeping?”
“Well, then, we got the kid thing out of the way. So…how are you eating and
sleeping?” She grinned broadly and felt her anxiety begin to dissipate. She’d forgotten how fun it was to banter with him.
His eyes were bloodshot and his face was unshaven and pale. Even his hair looked a little dull—not dirty or greasy, exactly, just uninspired. He struck an exaggerated modeling pose—hip jutted out and lips pursed—and said, “You tell me. How do you think I’m eating and sleeping?”
“Like shit,” Leigh said without a moment’s hesitation.
Jesse laughed and pushed the door open. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
Leigh looked around. She took in the creaky floors and the gigantic, well-worn farmhouse table and the crocheted blanket flung haphazardly across the sofa and, although she had already fallen in love with the whole house based on this first room, sighed loudly for effect and said, “Jesse, Jesse, Jesse…did you really spend all your earnings on cocaine and hookers, like the tabloids claim?”
He shook his head. “Cocaine, booze, and hookers.”
“I stand corrected.”
“Okay, then, should we get started? I mostly work out back, through the living room, so why don’t you get set up there and I’ll bring drinks.” He pulled open the fridge and bent sideways to look inside. “Let’s see, I’ve got beer, some shitty white wine, some not-so-shitty rosé, and Bloody Mary mix. I think it’s a bit early for red, don’t you?”
“I think it’s a bit early for any of it. I’ll take a Diet Coke.”
Jesse snapped his fingers and pulled a half-full bottle of Ketel from the freezer. “Excellent choice. One Bloody Mary, coming right up.”
She already knew there was no point in arguing with him, and besides, he looked like he needed a drink to take the edge off last night’s hangover. Leigh vaguely remembered what that was like. Back in her postcollege years in the city, when her body allowed her to drink until three and still be at work by nine, she’d occasionally had a few sips of wine with breakfast to ease the pain. She remembered all the nights out with Emmy and Adriana, traipsing across the city, from happy hour to birthday party, drinking too much, smoking too much, and kissing too many nameless, faceless boys. God, that seemed like forever ago…the seven, eight years felt like a lifetime. Now the heels were never quite so high (how had she ever worn something so uncomfortable?) and the packed bars had given way to more civilized restaurants (thank god) and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d stayed up all night for any reason other than work or insomnia. But, Leigh reminded herself, some of those happy memories must have been revisionist history. How could they not have been? Back then there was no prestigious job, no independently owned and operated apartment, and certainly no doting fiancé.
Leigh wandered through the skylight-lit living room and opened the sliding glass door to reveal one of the most welcoming outdoor spaces she’d ever seen. It wasn’t a backyard so much as an oasis in the middle of the forest. Huge towering oaks and maples created an enclosed area that was covered with inviting, but not overly manicured, green grass. A small gunite pool—so small that perhaps it was only a plunge pool or a hot tub—was flanked by two chaises, a table, and chairs, and seemed to blend into the background, allowing one’s attention to focus on the real draw: a perfect little pond, maybe twenty feet by thirty, with a floating, cushioned sun dock and the simplest of wooden rowboats tethered to the shore. Behind the pond, at the very edge of the property, tucked under a cluster of leafy trees, was a Balinese-style teak daybed, the kind that easily fits two people and provides shade from a roof atop its four posts. It was all Leigh could do not to walk directly to the daybed and collapse; she wondered how, with so beautiful and relaxing a place, Jesse ever got anything done.
“Not bad, huh?” he asked, stepping onto the stone patio and handing her a Bloody Mary complete with celery stalk and lime.
“My god, this place doesn’t look like much from the front—or the inside, really—but this…this is gorgeous.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“No, really, have you thought about having this photographed? I can so picture it in one of those design magazines, what are they called? Dwell. It’s perfect for Dwell.”
He ran his hands through his hair and swigged from his bottle of Budweiser. “Unlikely.”
“No, really, I think it could be—”
“No reporters or photographers in my home, ever.”
“I hear that,” Leigh agreed, although she couldn’t help but remember the spread of Russell’s apartment she’d seen in Elle Décor before they’d ever even met. It was included in an article on the city’s best bachelor pads and featured Russell’s ultramodern TriBeCa loft as its pièce de résistance. At the time Leigh had pored over the pictures of the kitchen, which looked industrial enough to serve as a catering hall; the wenge platform bed, which was so low it may as well have been a mattress on the floor; and the bathroom, which looked like it was pulled directly from a W Hotel and plunked down in the middle of the apartment. She’d read that the place was twenty-two hundred square feet of completely open space, huge windows, and hardwood floors lacquered black, but it wasn’t until their third date that Leigh saw it for herself. Since then, she’d spent as little time there as humanly possible; all that steel and black lacquer and all those sharp corners made her even more nervous than usual.
Jesse took a seat at the table and motioned for Leigh to claim the one opposite him. After another slow, deliberate pull on his beer, he took a deep breath, undid the clasp on a tatty canvas messenger bag, and pulled a phonebook-sized sheaf of paper from its center. He presented this to Leigh with both hands, the way an Asian waiter might present a check or a business card. “Be gentle,” he said quietly.
“I thought you wanted honesty, not gentleness?” She took the manuscript and placed it in front of her, not sure how she could resist tearing into it for another moment. “‘No one’s straight with me, I’m coddled and yessed and I just want an editor who’s going to tell it like it is.’” She imitated the speech she was told he’d made in their first meeting in Henry’s office.
Jesse lit a cigarette and said, “That was all bravado. Bullshit. I’m a complete baby who can barely handle constructive criticism, much less a thorough slashing.”
Leigh pressed her palms into the table and smiled. “Well, that, Jesse Chapman, makes you exactly like every other author I know. I haven’t had any God complexes yet, but a debilitating lack of self-confidence coupled with constant self-doubt and self-flagellation? That I can handle.”
Jesse held up his cigarette in a “stop” motion. “Whoa, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. That”—he pointed to the manuscript—“is this year’s, if not this decade’s, finest contribution to literature—of that much I’m sure. I was just requesting a little sensitivity on the off-chance you should run across a paragraph or two that’s not to your liking.”
“Ah, yes, of course. A paragraph or two. I’m sure there won’t even be that much.” Leigh nodded in mock seriousness.
“Excellent. I’m glad we’re on the same page.” He paused and peered at her and then said, “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Aren’t you going to read it?”
“I will once you leave me alone.”
Jesse’s eyes widened. “Alone? I didn’t know that was standard procedure.”
Leigh laughed. “You know as well as I do that nothing about this is standard procedure.”
Jesse feigned a look of innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Standard would be my boss editing your book, not me. Standard would be me having read your manuscript—or even just an outline and a sample chapter—before driving two and a half hours to meet with you. Standard would—”
Jesse held up his hands as though to block himself from the onslaught and stood up. “I’m bored,” he announced. “Holler if you need anything. I’ll be upstairs taking a nap.” Without another word, he disappeared inside the house.
It was a moment or two before Leigh realized her fing
ernails were digging into her palms. Did he try to irritate her, or was it something that just came naturally for him? Was he kidding about being oversensitive to criticism, or thinking this book—whatever it was about—really was the second coming, or was that all just a facade? He could be so charming and irreverent and witty, and then—bam!—a switch flipped and he reverted right back to the cocky asshole everyone reported him to be.
She checked her watch and saw that she had another hour to kill until she could check into the hotel, so with a sip of Bloody Mary and a lustful eye toward the pack of cigarettes Jesse had left behind, she began to read. The novel began at the Foreign Correspondents’ Club in Phnom Penh and included a displaced, hard-drinking American narrator that Leigh couldn’t help thinking felt very familiar. Not plagiarism familiar, just a bit hackneyed: The End of the Affair, The Quiet American, and Acts of Faith came immediately to mind. This alone didn’t much worry her—it was easy enough to change—but as she read the next few pages, and then the pages after those, her concern increased. The story itself—about a twentysomething kid who stumbles into best-sellerdom with his very first book—was compelling in a wonderfully voyeuristic way; not surprising, considering the author’s firsthand knowledge. It was the actual writing that worried her: It was flat, unoriginal, even droning at times. Totally un-Jesse-like. She took a deep breath and reminded herself it could have been far worse. Had the story itself been a disaster, she wouldn’t have even known where to start.
By the time Jesse shuffled back an hour later, bleary-eyed but having traded in his beer for a bottle of water, Leigh was beginning to realize how very out of her league she was. How on earth was she, Leigh Eisner, junior editor and until now virgin editor of any bestselling author, supposed to tell one of the most literarily and commercially successful authors of his generation that, in its current incarnation, his newest effort wasn’t going to top any bestseller lists? The answer, she realized, was simple: She wouldn’t.