“Bingo,” her agent said. “And likely never worked a job she couldn’t afford to quit. Daddy’s loaded, big surprise, and so’s hubby.”
Though Amanda could no longer say she loved Eddie, he was her husband and he was a writer. You don’t get to treat us like that, she thought. She made her agent promise never to send her work to that house.
“Smart anyway,” Patrice said. “They don’t publish fiction well at all. They really botched that antebellum mystery. What a fiasco.”
“But really,” Amanda said. “I’d rather not publish anywhere than publish there.”
“Honey, that doesn’t sound like you at all. But no matter, it’s not even going to come close to that.”
The publishing near-miss sunk Eddie into a new psychological trough from which Amanda worried he would never emerge. He drank more and more, night after night, and rarely left the apartment unless they were out of liquor. He slept on the sofa significant portions of most days.
“Start a new book,” Amanda instructed him with no effect. “Remember that your book is out with other editors,” she pleaded softly.
She herself wrote a great deal while she awaited word on The Progress of Love, trying to keep up with the requests for Clarice Aames stories. On her first day of unemployment, she told Eddie that she had called in sick. Using the morning and half the afternoon, she wrote three Clarice pieces: a second-person story about a deformed girl living on a garbage barge, an omniscient narration describing a world-ending apocalypse that no one notices, and a love story told from the point of view of a female sadist. She received acceptances by email the next day, placing “Cauliflower Girl” in Swanky, “End Zone” in The Bleeding Edge, and “Assume the Position” in Virus, which was the publishing organ of ulcer.
When she walked into the living room brimming with the secret good news, Eddie roused from his half-sleep and sat up on the sofa. “How can you smile while our books are out there and your husband is in pain?”
“Today could be the day. Good news in publishing always comes on Thursday or Friday. You should be glad you made it through Wednesday. Do you want a sandwich?”
“No, I don’t want a sandwich. I want a publishing contract and a wife who loves me.”
Amanda made two cheese-and-tomato sandwiches, and Eddie ate the one she handed him.
“Don’t we have any chips?” he asked. “It’s not the same without chips.”
Often the small sums up the large, and it was that statement, as much as anything else, that started Amanda thinking through the logistics of divorce.
Later that day, Eddie perked up when he received a letter informing him that Vapor had been second runner-up in a manuscript competition. His prize was a coupon waiving the entry fee in the same competition next year.
“What have you come to that you consider this good news?” Amanda asked.
“Well, if I don’t place the new book, I can enter it next year for free.”
“Even if you win, what’s the prize? A print-run of eight hundred and a thousand dollars?”
“Five hundred,” Eddie said. “Print run and prize money.”
Amanda knew they were on the verge of the argument that might end their marriage when the first call came. It was Eddie’s agent phoning with the news that she had sold Conduct to a mid-size publisher with a good reputation. The advance was fifteen thousand dollars for world rights, but his agent believed they would “make more money” on sales.
Eddie lifted Amanda and spun her twice, so fast that her hair whipped around, releasing the citrus smell that she considered part of herself. He set her down and kissed her on the mouth. “Finally!”
“This is fabulous news!” she said. “You needed to get one across the finish line and now you have! Now you can take the time to write a really good book.”
“Thanks, honey,” Eddie said. “You know I love sports analogies.”
She was about to ask him whether he was engaging the sarcasm center of his brain when he lifted and spun her again.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, cupping her cheekbone, “and I’m taking you out for dinner.”
The second call came while she was dressing. This time is was Amanda’s agent, and the size of the advance for the Fragonard book surprised even Amanda.
“Oh,” Eddie said when she told him. “Then let’s get drunk, too.”
Ignoring the deflation in his tone, Amanda said, “For once I agree with you, but we’re getting drunk on the best champagne. If I can get a reservation, we’re eating dinner at Grub. What’s Jackson’s roommate’s name again? Maybe she can get us a good table. I’ll phone while you shower.”
Amanda was glad to have this reason to call Jackson. Though she was annoyed that Eddie seemed less than happy that she’d also sold a book, she couldn’t rub her advance in his face — not on the day he’d finally sold another book. But Jackson could share in her exultation. She was disappointed to hear Jackson’s recorded voice when she called.
“Me too,” she said to the answering machine. “Six figures, that is.”
Chapter thirty-four
The train braked for and jerked away from one absurd stop after another, depositing doughy men to stomp across filthy snow to drive their generic cars home to overweight, practically-shod wives in soul-deadening subdivisions and characterless towns. Jackson Miller promised himself that he would never live anywhere but New York, except, perhaps, Paris.
As he stepped off the train at the Annandale-on-Hudson station, he spotted Margot on the platform. It had been only a couple of weeks since he had last seen her, but she looked smaller than he remembered — shorter and, in pale jeans and a black turtleneck, thinner than ever. She smiled when she saw him, but glanced away when he made eye contact.
“Everything all right?” Jackson put an arm around her narrow shoulders.
“Of course. I’m just happy to see you. And I’m a little nervous.”
She hooked a curl with her index finger and tucked it away from her eye, a small gesture which endeared her to Jackson all over again.
“Especially now that you’re on the verge of fame,” she said. “And my father’s not the nicest host in the world.”
“Let’s face it, even the most famous novelist is hardly mobbed on the street. People may know his name but not his face. Anyway, I’m here to see you and not your father, so never mind about that. We’ll get through the best we can, and we know that you can always come to me.”
The Yarborough house sat on a pretty hill overlooking the wide river, but the Cape Cod itself was smaller and plainer than Jackson had anticipated. Jackson knew little about architecture and construction, but the roof bowed and it was obvious that the clapboard needed a fresh coat of white paint. It probably looked better in the spring; against the snow and bare trees, the house looked dingy.
“It’s a great place, isn’t it?” Margot said. “I’m afraid the day is coming when Dad will have to sell it, though no doubt he’ll hold out as long as possible. My mother would actually like the change.”
“I suppose real estate up here is worth a lot, regardless of the condition of the house itself. Being a train ride from the city and overlooking the Hudson and all.”
“Yes. My parents bought it a long time ago. Only rich people can move here now.”
Jackson laughed. “What’s that joke about middle-aged men? They talk about sex but think about real estate?”
“We’re not middle-aged.”
“Exactly, so perhaps we’re doing the opposite.” Jackson slithered an arm around her small waist and pulled her momentarily closer to him.