The Seven Year Slip

THERE WAS SOMETHING MAGNETIC about Manhattan in the summer, the way the sun reflected off every mirrored skyscraper window, bouncing off each other like some ancient mirrorball. It was perfect for afternoons standing in line for Shakespeare in the Park, quiet Saturdays at the Cloisters, nights buzzing with light and food and energy. But every year, when the Fourth of July came around, Drew, Fiona, and I packed our bags and headed to the Hudson Valley to escape the tourists and browse all of the delightful little bookstores nestled in quaint towns, and we returned just as the city emptied again, and life spun on.

I had lunch with Drew and Fiona, and I worked late, and then one afternoon, about a month and a half after I met Iwan for the first and last time, in the middle of July, when summer was at its hottest, Drew excitedly leaned in across the wrought-iron table where we sat in the shade in Bryant Park.

“Guess what proposal we got in today!” she said happily.

Fiona and I picked at our grilled cheeses from the food truck parked over by the New York City Public Library’s Stephen A. Schwarzman Building. They were warring with a new food truck on the block—a loud yellow fajita truck that had a line that snaked down the sidewalk, and it smelled ridiculously good. Probably not as good as the fajitas Iwan made me a few weeks ago, though. Besides, I had my allegiance to the grilled cheese truck. The grilled cheeses were some of the best in Midtown—gooey and crisp, the sourdough crust crunchy, the meld of cheeses harmonious. Mine had chopped chunks of mushrooms and bell peppers, mayonnaise spiced with a little sriracha, and it was very much bliss. I’d started paying a little bit more attention to the food I ate since Iwan—and the people who cooked it, wondering what their stories were, too.

“Whose?” Fiona asked around a pimento grilled cheese.

“The chef’s! You know—the one from the Olive Branch? James Ashton? He’s coming into the office tomorrow. He wants to meet with us.”

I perked up. “I thought we’d written him off?”

“I almost did. Admittedly, his agent also said they were going to a few other imprints . . .” She gave a shrug. “But it’s a start! I haven’t looked over the proposal yet, but I know it’s going to be amazing. And you should finally read that Eater article.”

I ducked my head. “Sorry . . .”

I’d tabled the article since that lunch a few weeks ago because life had gotten frantic, and Rhonda had placed a lot more responsibilities on me. Nothing had come out of it at the time, anyway, until now.

Fiona said around a mouthful of grilled cheese, “Oh, Clem, you’re going to fall in love with his writing. It’s so romantic. His forearms are almost as nice as his face,” she added. “They better be front and center on the book cover.”

“His forearms or his face?”

“Both.”

“And,” Drew added, reminding us that she was, in fact, a professional, “he writes beautifully. I can just imagine what his proposal is going to be like.”

I highly doubted I would fall in love with a few well-placed adjectives, but I liked Drew’s enthusiasm, and if she managed to nab another author for her list, that was all I cared about. She was so excited to get back to the office to read his proposal, we ended our lunch early and headed back to Strauss & Adder. I thought the afternoon would be quiet. Juliette hadn’t broken up with her boyfriend in about a week and a half, and I was on top of all of my emails, so it was a bit of a surprise when Rhonda called me into her office about an hour later and asked me to close the glass door to her office—again.

I did, and sat in the hard plastic chair. “Is something wrong?” I asked hesitantly, picking at my nails. Because—again—usually when she closed her office door, something was wrong. The first time, we fired the marketing designer. The second time, she told me she was retiring.

I really hoped she didn’t have a terminal disease today.

“What? Oh, no, why would you ask that?” she said in alarm. Then, a bit more seriously: “Should I ask that?”

“No! No, absolutely not. No,” I quickly replied, waving my hands in front of me. I ate an almond she’d offered me as she sank back into her seat. “Everything is fine. Perfect.” There were three dings from my phone. Three emails. I swallowed. “Mostly perfect. We’re having a bit of a problem with—”

She put up a hand. “Doesn’t matter. As you know, we have a meeting tomorrow with James Ashton, who’s shopping around his cookbook.”

“I think Drew mentioned him, yeah.”

“It would be very nice to add him to our list,” she replied, and took off her glasses. She set them down on the desk in front of her and added, “Since we lost Basil Ray to Faux.”

I sat up a little straighter. “We what?”

“He signed a deal with them last week,” she relayed, which was possibly some of the worst news we could’ve had. Basil Ray was one of our top authors—his cookbooks sold so well, we didn’t even think twice when he told us to book him in first class and sent us a rider where he requested only Diet Cokes, a specific kind of kombucha that had to be imported from South Korea, and vegan-friendly, gluten-free, high-calorie meal options. “To be frank, losing him will be a substantial hit to our finances. Given that, along with some other bits of bad luck, we might be in trouble if we can’t find a big book for next summer. I’m not trying to alarm you, I’m just being frank,” she added, because she could no doubt see the blood draining from my face.

“Trouble—do you mean, like, for a season or . . . ?”

“Perhaps, Clementine,” she said gravely, “but we don’t want to take chances. That’s why I asked you to close the door.”

“Oh,” I said quietly.

“I’m gathering a list of other rising stars in the culinary world to approach, but James Ashton would be a shoo-in. He’s young, he’s quite talented, and he’s handsome. We could sell the shit out of his cookbook,” she said confidently. “This a pretty rare scenario. From everything I’ve heard about his agent, this whole ordeal is going to be notoriously awful—so I’d like you to take the lead on it with Drew. You’re the only one I trust.”

Which meant this was my chance to prove myself.

She ate another almond. “I’d like you to look over his proposal and go to the meeting tomorrow with an outline of how you’d go about launching this book. The usual, you know. Drew can email it to you.”

“Absolutely, and I can meet with her and formulate a plan of attack.”

“Perfect. I look forward to seeing how you nab this chef,” she replied.

“Who else has he gone to?” I asked.

“All the big players.”

Which meant this was going to be nearly impossible. Strauss & Adder didn’t have the kind of money or resources that a lot of the larger publishers did, but that just meant I had to get creative. Come up with a marketing strategy he couldn’t say no to. I had a lot of work ahead of me tonight. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Excellent,” Rhonda replied, and sat back in her chair, green eyes glimmering. “This is going to be big for you, Clementine. I can just feel it.”

I hoped she was right.