Didi gave Norah a massive hug. “I knew I did good when I hired you,” she said.
Norah returned the embrace and almost didn’t want to let go. She wished she was as confident as Didi that Ted would come through. God knows she wanted it with every charged ion of her being, but a nagging doubt swelled in Norah’s throat. Would he honor his word?
She stepped back to examine the papers her boss had just handed her. They were copies of the guest contract Ted Shriver would need to sign before appearing on Simon Janey Live.
“Let’s not celebrate until the ink is dry,” Norah said. They were in her hotel room at the Algonquin. If all went according to plan, she would be checking out that night and wouldn’t have to worry about the show picking up the tab.
“If you say so, sugar,” Didi said. “But I know he’s going to sign them; I can feel it.”
“Clairvoyance or wishful thinking?” Norah asked.
“Bit of both, I reckon.”
“He might still put up a fight,” Norah said.
“The trick is,” Didi said, “don’t ask. Just hand him the pen, and act like you’re in a hurry.”
Norah nodded, trying to imagine Ted’s reaction to such a performance.
“You sure you don’t need me to go with you?” Didi asked.
“It’ll be better if I see him alone,” Norah said. “I think he’ll feel ambushed if we show up together.”
“I trust you, bubbeleh,” Didi said. “You are saving our hides, as sure as gold is precious and honey sweet.” Then she gave Norah one last hug and left.
—
A few minutes later, Norah was alone at Ted Shriver’s door, contracts in hand. This time, she didn’t have to beg and plead for him to open the door. As soon as she knocked, there he was—freshly showered and shaved, wearing a clean shirt that was only slightly wrinkled.
“You look . . .” She paused, trying to find the right words. In truth, he didn’t look better, just neater. If anything, he looked even sicklier, his gray pallor and sunken cheeks incongruous against the smell of Old Spice and Irish Spring.
“Dashing,” he offered. “I could almost pass for human.”
Even the room itself smelled fresher, and Norah noticed that the window was wide open. He had been airing out the place.
“You must be feeling better,” she said.
“Not a bit. I’ve just decided to fake it until I’m dead.”
This was positive. He seemed to be in a good mood. “I brought the contracts,” she said. “I visited Audrey—she’s taking the assignment.” Norah didn’t want there to be any doubt that she did what she had promised.
“So I heard.”
“You already spoke to her?”
“She came by,” he said, and Norah understood why Ted had cleaned himself up. It was astounding. This cranky, belligerent, dying man was trying to impress his ex-wife. If Norah had any doubts that he was still in love with Audrey, they were officially dismissed.
“Did she interview you about the guest book?”
“A bit. If I’m still alive, I’ll be seeing her again tomorrow.”
A date, Norah thought. No wonder he looks less miserable. “That’s . . . terrific. I guess you have no reservations about signing the contract then,” she said, handing him the pen.
“None at all. I just need to ask for one thing.”
“What’s that?” she said.
He put the pen down. “Let’s grab a bite and talk about it.”
“A bite?”
“I’m starving.”
Norah took a step back, confused. “You want to have dinner with me?”
“You eat, don’t you?”
It was like her dream—having dinner with Ted Shriver. Clearly, seeing Audrey had melted away his belligerence. She knew she should press him to sign the papers first, but how could she risk this chance to connect with him? They would find a quaint outdoor café on a quiet street downtown. At last, she would get to open up and they would talk—really talk. It would be the conversation she had always wanted to have, and by the time they were done he would consider her a friend. In fact, she would be the last friend he would make before he died. It was almost too much to bear. She turned away, muttered something about allergies, and ran a finger under her eye to prevent her mascara from running.
“Where are we going?” she asked, hoping he had a European-style outdoor café in mind.
“Downstairs. That’s the benefit of staying in a hotel with its own restaurant.”
She suppressed her disappointment. So what if it wasn’t a perfect match with her dream scenario? They could still connect. And anyway, it wasn’t like they were eating at McDonald’s. This was the Algonquin—a hotel rich in literary history. Norah decided that it was perfect—better than her fantasy.
He took the contracts from her and laid them on his dresser.
“Why don’t we take those with us?” she said. If a perfect moment to get his signature arose, she wanted to be ready.
“I just want to talk,” he said. “I’ll sign them later.”
He wants to talk, Norah thought, her heart rate rising. She looked at his bloodshot eyes and could see nothing but the dream she had held so close since the day she and her mother had that conversation at the kitchen table.
“Okay,” she said, and they rode down in the elevator to the Algonquin’s famous restaurant in the hotel lobby.
The maître d’ led them to the back of the long room, where they sat in golden-yellow upholstered chairs flanking a small round table. Ted immediately ordered two martinis.
“With a twist,” he added.
“I’m not in the mood for a martini,” Norah said, surprised by the mix of chivalry and chauvinism.
“They’re both for me,” he said. “You can order what you want.”
She laughed. “You never disappoint, do you?” She turned to the waiter and ordered a glass of cabernet.
Norah waited until the drinks were served before she steered the conversation in the direction she had always imagined.
“Do you get sick of people asking you about Dobson’s Night?” she said.
He sighed. “It’s one of the things that makes death seem appealing.”
She looked into her wineglass, suddenly tongue-tied. Where was the witty repartee she had imagined? Where were the delightful bons mots that were supposed to roll from her lips so charmingly? All these years she had told herself she would be able to impress him, and here she was, approaching him just like any other stupid, gushing fan. She could sense a wave of depression rising in the distance and hoped she could protect herself.
“But go ahead,” he said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve even looked a reader in the eye. Maybe I’m ready to answer a question like a fucking human being.”
Norah let out a long breath. It was just the encouragement she needed. She took a sip of wine to fortify herself and choked on it. “Excuse me,” she said, coughing into a napkin.
He pushed a glass of water toward her and she took a sip.
“Sorry,” she said, catching her breath. “Sometimes I choke for no reason.”
“I suspect there’s a reason.”
She took a deep breath, testing her airway. “You’re not going to psychoanalyze me, are you?”
“That’s more boring than talking about my book.”
Norah folded her napkin. “Am I that uninteresting to you?” she said, and immediately regretted it. She didn’t want him to think she was a frivolous girl who fished for compliments.
“Don’t take it personally. I’m a dick, remember? I’m not interested in anyone but myself.”
She shook her head. “I don’t actually believe that.”
“Now you’re going to psychoanalyze me, right? I’ll tell you a secret—I’m really not all that complicated.”
“I’ve read your books.”
“So?”
“You have more emotional depth than anyone I know. I think your bluster is a lot of bullshit.”
“Maybe the books are a lot of bullshit.”
She looked at his hard face. He had no intention of letting her in. This was going to be hard work.
“I was thirteen the first time I read Dobson’s Night.” She paused, wondering how she could say what it meant to her without sounding banal. “I was young, I know, but—”
“Please don’t tell me it changed your life.”
“Why not? It did.”
“No it didn’t. You woke the next day and you were the same lonely, miserable kid you were the day before. Or maybe you were the same happy little spoiled brat you were the day before. I don’t know. The point is, you were a baby. You had never read a real book on your own before. And Dobson’s Night was simple enough for you to understand, and complex enough for you to know it was a little more relatable than the crap they gave you in school. So you had a moment of recognition. Maybe it taught you that you could enjoy books that dug deeper than the ‘first kiss’ shit you and your friends were breathless over. And if that’s the case, I’m grateful. I’m grateful it taught you something and opened you up to literature, whatever the fuck that means. But don’t think it changed your life just because you happened to read it at the very moment your pituitary gland was activated and hormones were exploding from your ovaries.”
“You think you understand everything about me.”
“I understand enough.”
She shook her head. “I know a lot of thirteen-year-olds went cult-crazy over Dobson’s Night, but I grew up with a single mother—”
“Please, don’t,” he said.
“Listen to me,” she said. “I’m trying to tell you something here. The scene where the father and son are walking toward the church—”
“I don’t remember,” he said, waving his hand as if the scene were washed from his memory.
“Of course you do. Let me explain why it meant so much to me.”
“There are a lot of people who would be happy to talk to you about it.”
“But you’re Ted Shriver.”
“And you’re Norah . . . What’s your last name again?”
“Wolfe.”
“Wolfe,” he repeated, looking away. “I knew someone named Wolfe.” He pulled the olive out of his martini and dropped it on the table. “Why can’t they ever remember to bring it with a fucking twist?”
Norah felt her face flush, and she held her wrists against her cool water glass. She needed to change the subject quickly. “I have to ask you something.”
He sipped his martini and sat back, a signal that he was ready to hear it.
“After the father leaves Robert at the church,” she continued, “he never comes back.”
“That’s not a question.”
“I think you know the question,” she said. “It’s why. Why doesn’t he come back?”
“Why do you think?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I didn’t understand. I mean, he loved him so much.”
“Of course he did.”
“Why, then?”
He leaned forward. “Let me explain something, Norah Wolfe. When I finish with a book, I’m done. There is no more than what I wrote. You know as much about what happens outside those pages as I do.”
“It’s hard for me to accept that.”
He shrugged.
“Isn’t there anything you can tell me?” she said.
“Just this—it’s important that you’re asking that question.”
“Just live with it for a while,” he said. “And if I’m still alive a week or month from now, we can talk about it again.”
“I’d like you to stay alive.”
“Yes, of course. You want me to do your TV show.”
“It’s not just that.”
The emotion in her voice had embarrassed her, and the pause that followed was terrible. She had meant to play it cool, to act as if this conversation was important only for the intellectual stimulation. But that quaver gave it away. She felt naked.
He shook his head. “Don’t get too attached to me, okay?”
Norah cleared her throat. “Too late for that.”
“You seem like a very smart young woman,” he said, “and you’ve seen what I leave in my wake.”
“I just want to be your friend,” she said.
“I’m too old to be your friend.”
“I don’t know about that. Some days I feel like I’m a hundred and one.”
He lowered his head, as if he could only get a good look at her by looking up. “An old soul, eh?”
“I’ve been on my own a long time.”
“Fine, I’ll be your friend—your temporary friend. But if you’re looking for a father figure—”
“No!” she said too loudly, and again felt herself flush. She gathered herself and lowered her voice. “What did you mean earlier when you said you needed one more thing before signing the contracts?”
“I want to see those manuscripts you found.”
“Why?”
“Just humor me.”
“You don’t believe me?” she asked.
“You can’t take everything so personally.”
“Just to be clear,” she said, “if I show you those manuscripts, you’ll sign the contract?”
“I’ll sign the contract.”
“Right away?”
“Right away.”
“You promise?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
She studied his expression to be sure he wasn’t making a joke. His brow was low and serious.
She held up her wineglass for a toast. “To Simon Janey Live, then.”