Fifty-four

“Oh, my goodness, ancient history,” Addy said, suddenly interested in the view. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

I quickly solved that dilemma. “How about we narrow the scope of the question? You must recall why you joined in the first place.”

Addy paused, could see I wasn’t going to back down, and finally replied.

“Well, I suppose, all those years ago when I first went to your charming Village Blend, I thought I was emulating the famous authors who recorded their own thoughts inside coffeehouses. Who wouldn’t want to write like Voltaire, Dostoevsky, Albert Camus—or even Jack Kerouac? But in human terms, these authors also engaged in discussions with other patrons as much as they actually sat and wrote. They went to coffeehouses for intellectual stimulation, for inspiration, for fellowship, as well as a place to write…”

Elena reappeared to clear our plates and pour the (very expensive) mineral water. Addy took a sip.

“Ah, this Vichy Catalan is my only weakness. I’ve had it imported from Spain for years, ever since I first tasted the healing thermal waters of Caldes de Malavella. Enjoy it, ladies!”

Esther sipped and shrugged. “I guess it’s as good as San Pellegrino. Have you tasted their flavors? Dark morello cherry’s pretty awesome, and you’re in luck. It’s on sale right now at Key Food and ShopRite.”

Addy gave her a tight smile. “Getting back to your question, Clare. If there is a one-word answer to why I joined the Village Blend writers’ group, besides inspiration, it was simply this: loneliness. I came to New York fresh out of school and moved in with a college friend who ultimately couldn’t cope with the many challenges of this city. She went home after six months, which left me with no friends, a squalid apartment I could barely afford, and a dead-end job at a Midtown law firm.”

“Were you a paralegal?” I asked.

“I wish. No, I was a lowly clerical worker. In those days, law books were in binders and updated pages were issued as the laws changed. My job was to swap out the old pages for the new. Tedious work done in a tiny, windowless library where I was pretty much ignored by the rest of the staff.”

“Sounds like one of Dante’s Circles of Hell,” Esther said.

“The First Circle, I’d say. Limbo. I was so miserable I started writing alone in my apartment at night. That’s when I began working on what would become the launch book in my New Amsterdam series.”

“Really? That long ago?” I asked, calculating the publication date. “But you didn’t publish it until decades later.”

“I didn’t finish the novel until decades later, after my writing career took off with another project.” Addy reached for her glass and her enormous ring dinged the crystal. “You see, while I was a member of the Writer’s Block Lounge I dreamed up the concept that eventually became the television series She Slays Me.”

Esther’s jaw dropped. “You worked on that show?”

“I created and wrote nearly every episode, Esther. But you’re far too young to have watched its original run. Am I right?”

“You’re right. I watched it in syndication—”

Just then, Elena was back. “For your main dish, we have a duo of Pennsylvania game: Roasted Saddle of Rabbit and Paccheri Pasta Stuffed with Venison.”

“Delightful!” Addy exclaimed, and as she asked Elena to compliment the chef, Esther leaned close again to whisper—

“I can’t eat Bambi and Thumper!”

“Is anything wrong?” Addy asked.

I spoke up. “Would you have a vegetarian plate for Esther?”

“Oh, my goodness, yes! Elena, would you—”

“Be right back,” she said and in a flash presented Esther with “Aigre-Doux Beets, Asparagus Roasted with Lemon and Garlic, and a Horseradish Tartelette with Sauce Roquefort.”

“Thank you, Elena,” Addy said and turned to us. “Many of these delightful offerings were featured on Daniel Boulud’s Mother’s Day menu last year. I hired away one of his chefs de partie on the spot. The fine dining at Daniel’s is my only weakness. Enjoy!”

We did, and as Esther happily tucked into her lemon and garlic asparagus, she continued to chatter about Addy’s hit TV show. “My older sister was an even bigger fan of She Slays Me than I was.”

“How nice,” Addy replied absently.

“Sis was the kind of teenager who read textbooks for entertainment. Her idea of a hot Saturday night was spotting a meteor while stargazing with her science club girlfriends. They were all fascinated by the ingenious ways people were offed by the girl assassin on your show.”

Addy’s polite smile grew bigger. “Yes, those plot devices were ingenious, if I do say so myself.”

“My sister was absolutely inspired,” Esther said. “One of her science club projects was engineering a tiny balloon hidden behind her ring that dispensed a few drips of liquid saccharin for her tea.”

Addy laughed. “She took that from ‘The Ricin Ring.’ One of my favorite episodes…”

Seeing Addy more relaxed, I tried to steer the conversation back to her personal memories. “If you enjoyed working on the show so much, why did you leave it for novel writing?”

“Oh, after a few years, our star was getting major motion picture offers and held the production up for ransom. The novelty of the show had worn off by then and the ratings were down. So we all agreed to do one final season. Then I pitched my New Amsterdam idea, but I was told the production would be too costly. They didn’t have the vision that I did, and I was desperate to write the story, so I left Hollywood, and the rest—as you know—is literary history.”

“Then you were happier writing novels?” I asked.

“Absolutely. It’s a singular vision. That’s the beauty of being a novelist. You don’t have to limit your cast or locations, or worry about costuming and above the line casting costs.” She sighed. “I still remember the headaches with the She Slays Me production: the star constantly complaining about her skimpy costumes; the struggles to get the stunt double looking believable in the fight scenes; and the network exec who would not stop griping that a female assassin would create a backlash for the show.”

“I don’t remember any backlash,” Esther replied. “And didn’t the show win an Emmy?”

“Three Emmys. But despite the overall acclaim, some critics—older male critics, by the way—did find it disturbing to watch a sweet, innocent-looking young woman commit cold-blooded murder in every episode, never mind that the villains were evil incarnate and certainly had it coming.”

“Not everyone embraces the new,” Esther said. “She Slays Me was one of the earliest shows to shake up the male-dominated action category. It came before La Femme Nikita, Buffy, Alias, Dark Angel—the whole kick-ass girl revolution.”

“Yes, and the groundbreaking nature of She Slays Me was why I received an Emmy for writing, the show won best drama, and the lead actress took home a statuette for her work as Stephanie Slay. I remember the New York Times glowingly describing my protagonist as Jane Bond and the show as That Girl with a license to kill.”

“Kill is right!” Esther replied. “And so ingeniously. I’ll never forget the tube of body lotion that fired a bullet. After I watched that episode, a woman beside me on the bus pulled out a tube of hand cream and I almost lost it.”

“Ah, yes, ‘Beauty Creamed,’ ” Addy said wistfully. “I enjoyed writing that episode, but I hated the title. What can I say? Sometimes the producers win.”

“Deadly body lotion is a pretty outré idea,” Esther said. “Is that even real?”

“Yes, I fear that it is.”

“What about the others?” Esther asked. “Let me see…there was a plastic explosive-stuffed cigar, a radioactive teapot laced with polonium, a pen filled with poison instead of ink, a stiletto umbrella, anesthetic toothpaste—”

“Yes,” Addy cut in. “Every one of those methods of kidnapping and assassination that I used in She Slays Me was researched.”

“Researched how?” I asked, taking a thousand mental notes.

“All sorts of ways,” Addy said, waving her rings dismissively. “I made sure things were accurate from the very first episode.”

“That first episode was my favorite,” Esther said. “Talk about memorable Shakespearean heroines. You certainly created one.”

“How did she do that?” I asked.

“In the pilot episode, Stephanie Slay poses as an actress in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Between acts she kills a terrorist in the audience of the Delacorte Theater with a poison dart fired from a blowgun—”

“That’s right,” Addy said. “She was playing a fairy and the blowgun was disguised as a wooden flute.”

“It blew me away,” Esther cracked. “Pardon the pun.”

“I’m flattered to know you enjoyed it.”

I was now on the edge of my seat. “Addy, you said you came to the coffeehouse for inspiration. Did the group help you hone your idea? Did you incorporate any feedback?”

“Who can remember that far back?” Addy said, this time with a forced laugh. “And, really, if I did incorporate any suggestions I received, they were quickly rendered irrelevant.”

“What do you mean?” Esther couldn’t mask her skepticism. “That’s not my experience with writing groups. Didn’t you keep a notebook?”

“You misunderstand, Esther. The moment I signed my Hollywood contract, everyone wanted to jump in with suggestions. The network executives, the producer, the director, even the actors had their own ideas about what the show should be. By the time She Slays Me debuted, dozens of cooks had contributed to my soup.”

“Speaking of literary soups,” I cut in, “I’d like to hear more about the members of the original Writer’s Block Lounge.”

“It was so long ago, Clare, I can’t recall them all by name.”

“I’m sure you can remember some of them.”

She paused to sip her mineral water, but I got the distinct impression her writer’s mind was working up another evasive answer.

I took a breath for patience, thinking Madame was right.

Despite Addy’s claim last evening that she was an “open book,” when it came to the history of the Writer’s Block Lounge, that book remained frustratingly closed.