The Book of Jane (4 page)

“Can I get you a glass of water?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say. Mary Sue goes into the kitchen with Charlie on her heels and leaves me alone with Lee. I sit down next to him on the couch.

“What have I done?” he whispers.

I keep my voice low. “Please tell me what you've done. I'm at a loss. Your apartment has doubled its furnishings somehow, your mother answers the door, and you look like you're from Queens all of a sudden. What's up?”

He puts his head on the coffee table and mumbles, “I told my mother to come and see me. She took the next plane up here. That was Saturday. Her ‘personal effects' arrived today.”

I start to chuckle at his dramatic despair when Mary Sue comes back in with a glass of water for me. She pinches Lee on the cheek. “So you're the Jane that Lee is always talking about. I tell you what, shug, when Lee first mentioned you, I thought to myself, Now Mary Sue, I think your son has finally found himself a bride, but he says you're just friends and you have another beau.”

I smile. Mary Sue is sweet, if a bit meddling. “Yes. I have a boyfriend named Tyson. I…don't think I'm really Lee's type. But Lee and I are good friends.”

“That's nice,” she says, taking a sip of water herself. “He's such a good boy, Lee.” I look at him, a bit uncomfortable that we're talking about him as if he weren't in the room. “I'm afraid I just wore him plumb out with the big move. But isn't he a dear? Why, you know, he positively insisted I come up here and live with him.”

“That's nice, Mom, but I'm sure Miss Jane needs to take Charlie on his walk now. I'll come up and see you later, Janie.”

“Oh hush,” she says to him. “He just gets so embarrassed, you know. But when I told him I had the cancer—shug, I got cancer of the bosoms—then he said, No mama of mine is going to get treatment at some second-rate hospital and be surrounded by perfect strangers during her time of need, so I just obeyed him and came right on up here, though, you know, leaving Charleston is never ideal.”

I look at Lee and can see this is true. I stare at my glass of water not sure of what to say. Poor Lee. Why didn't he tell me? Did he just find out? I search for something to say and come up with nothing that doesn't sound trite.

Mary Sue sees my shock and pats my hand. “Don't you worry now for one moment. I'm gonna lick this silly thing, and we'll all have a big ol' time here in New York in the meanwhile.”

I try to smile at her, and Charlie jumps up to her lap and kisses her on the face. She laughs and pets him. “Buck up, Miss Jane. I'm serious. It's gonna be just fine.”

 

When
we walk through the door in the ballroom I feel light as air, with Tyson's hand on the small of my back. I'm wearing the long black gown that I always wear to formal events. Thank God for Valentino. Tonight is Hamilton Glassman's fortieth wedding anniversary, and he decided to surprise his wife Genevieve with a party at the Four Seasons. He keeps saying that only a few personal friends have been invited, but since I ended up having to do most of the planning for the event, I happen to know that for him “a few personal friends” translates to the mayor, several senators, and about four hundred other beloved guests, including the entire company. Must be nice to be a Glassman. But the good news is that I'm not working tonight and aside from a few unavoidable meet-and-greet moments, Ty and I will get to dance to a real big-band orchestra and drink the finest of champagnes all night, which is something his writing does not normally afford us. All around us couples are dressed to kill and swirl and sway to the music.

“Ooh la la,” I say and wriggle my nose at my handsome date.

He shrugs. “Pretty fancy in here.”

We walk over to an empty table covered in a crisp, blindingly white tablecloth with a tasteful centerpiece of calla lilies. I look around and see Hamilton and his father, Herb, talking to a group of sycophantic men in tuxes. Tyson and I have a seat at the table and chat and nuzzle each other for a few minutes, when a slick businessman plops down next to us. Before I know it, he has Ty trapped in a discussion about “the real estate game.” I hate party bores and decide the best thing I can do to make it up to Tyson is to fetch a plate of hors d'oeuvres and a glass of champagne for us to share.

I make my way over to the food area first and queue up behind a tall man, but just as I'm coming up, someone comes over to him and they begin to chat. I wait politely for a moment, then I discreetly slip around them and then hit the rest of the spread. I pick up a knife and spread a bit of pâté on my plate and take a piece of baguette.

“I saw you cut in line,” a voice from behind me says.

I turn around and look up at a tall, dark-haired man. “I'm sorry,” I say, looking around to see if anyone notices this strange person accosting me. “You seemed to be occupied. Please, go ahead, then.”

No guy in his right mind would actually cut you back, but sure enough the man gets a very pleased look on his face and cuts in front of me. I sigh. Chivalry is truly dead. I comfort myself with an interesting-looking canapé.

The man turns back to me again. “Was that you who took the last of the duck pâté?”

I look at him, confused. “What? Oh, no. I have this other kind,” I say, pointing at my plate. He studies my plate with interest and then looks at my face, as if trying to discern if I'm telling the truth.

I snatch my plate away and say, “If you'll excuse me, I'm not feeling hungry anymore,” and stomp away. The nerve of some people. These rich, important types are always the same. They think that everyone will bow down to them and kiss their feet. I glance over to my table and see that the real estate agent has not even come up for a breath, and Ty, bless his heart, is still listening intently, so I decide to go and get a glass of champagne and cool down for a moment.

Armed with a glass of champagne, I turn back toward the party and watch people dancing to a George Gershwin song. It is beautiful. I love watching the guests, swaying perfectly to the music, dripping with diamonds and sequins. People just don't know how to dance anymore. It's only the older generation that has charm and class. And then I think about Lee's mother, Mary Sue, with her lovely, thick drawl and can-do spirit. The week has been so busy, I haven't had even a moment to stop and process what she told me the other day. Poor Lee. I need to have coffee with him soon. Maybe there is something I can do for the two of them.

“You sure seem to be enjoying that champagne.”

I look up and see the rude man again. What kind of night is this? I'm a publicist. I can handle this. I will not be intimidated. I will not yell. I will be in control.

“Jane Williams, nice to meet you.” I thrust my hand forward.

“Coates Glassman,” he says, clipping off each vowel. He shakes my hand roughly. “Charmed, I'm sure.” He takes a sip from his glass and smirks at me. “If you don't mind my saying it, you are sucking down that champagne as if it were a Malibu Sunrise and you an eighteen-year-old coed.”

I look at my glass, and it is indeed nearly empty. I look into Coates's eyes to show him I'm not afraid, even if he is related to my boss. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh come on, it's natural,” he says, looking around the party. “Something as romantic as this is sure to get you worked up about how you still don't have a boyfriend and you're, what, thirty-f—”

“Look, nice guess, Coates, if I may call you that, but I
do
have a boyfriend, and I
am
in love so such a romantic affair as this is just, well, that. Romantic.”

Coates raises his eyebrow at me.

“And I'm only twenty-eight.”

Coates laughs as though he's just been told a very good joke, and I blush. I really am twenty-eight. What is he implying? I decide to just walk away and not let him spoil my evening any further, but just as I am turning to go, Coates says, “May I ask you five questions?”

I turn back to him and cock one eyebrow. “I thought it was usually twenty questions for parlor games.”

“I'll only be needing five.”

“I get one first.”

“Sure. If it will make you feel better, then ask away.”

“Why?” I ask him.

“I'm an actuary. Do you know what that is?”

I shake my head no.

“It's my business to ask the questions no one wants to ask themselves. I have to know things about people that they don't want to admit they know.”

“What?”

“Sorry. You had your one question. Now I get my five.” I shrug. “Good then, we'll begin. Where is your day planner right now?”

I look down at my feet. “I don't have one.”

Coates frowns at me playfully. “Now, Jane, this will never work if you lie to me.”

“How do you know I'm lying? I'm not lying,” I say, lying through my teeth.

“I would say it is uncharacteristic of you to lie, if I had to guess, but I assume you are right now. You're a young, driven businesswoman whose entire appearance screams, ‘I keep my life just so.' Ergo, you must have a planner or a calendar of some sort.”

I look at my feet again. This guy is pretty good. I look up at him and say finally, “It's in my bedside table. Left-hand drawer.”

He smiles arrogantly. “Good. Next one. Did you grow up in Westchester or Connecticut?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “How is this fun for you if you already pumped someone I know for the right answers? Who was it?”

“On the contrary,” he says, his eyes crinkling in delight. “I just happen to be good at what I do. So is that Westchester? I'm leaning toward Westchester, and I'm rarely wrong.”

I roll my eyes at him. “Yes. Westchester. But how did you—”

“I've known other women who grew up there.”

Great, so I'm a Westchester type now. I look down at my manicure and wonder if that's what gave me away. Or was it the shoes?

“Three. Did you cry when Ross and Rachel got back together?”

“Yeah, but who didn't? That's hardly revealing. What are you trying to figure out, anyway?”

“Four. Which one is your boyfriend?”

I smile and turn and point at Tyson, who is looking adorable with his floppy hair.

“Really?” Coates says, as if surprised.

“What?
Now
you're surprised? Not when you correctly guess where I came from?” Tyson and I are such a good couple we practically match. Once someone stopped us on the street and said we looked good together. This Coates guy must not be that much of an actuary, whatever that is.

“I'm just surprised, is all. I'm surprised that
that's
your boyfriend.”

“It's not like you're Miss Cleo.”

“
That's
never going to last.” He raises his eyebrows.

“Do you have another question for me? I should really be getting back.”

Coates looks over at Tyson and shakes his head again. “Yes. One more. What is it that you really want to do with your life?”

I rear my head back. “Saving the biggest one for last, I see.”

“Is that how you see it? It could be the easiest one, really. Depends on your perspective.”

I look at him sideways. It is the hardest question, right? I mean, how does anyone really know what she wants to do with her life? Or what God wants her to do with her life? I might already be doing it. I'm not sure. Marry Tyson? Start a family? Climb through the ranks at Glassman Co.? That's what I have planned. So that's the answer, right? I open my mouth to tell him, with confidence, what I really want when Hamilton walks over to us and claps Coates on the back.

“Coates. Good man. Nice to see you.” Hamilton turns to me, surprised to see us standing together. “And Jane. I see you've made the acquaintance of my roguish nephew. Got all the looks in the family, this one.” He winks at Coates. I look at Hamilton to see if he's serious, and he most definitely is, and then I look at Coates. Huh. He is kind of good-looking. I hadn't noticed. Nothing like Tyson, who has women gaping at him on the street, but rather cookie-cutter handsome. Dark, straight shiny hair, conservative cut, blue eyes that are rather cold, square-boxy face, no facial hair. He's a tie-advertisement kind of guy. And Hamilton is implying that we are flirting with each other.

“We've met,” I say, trying to think of an exit strategy.

“Well, now. Don't lose your heart to this one. He's got quite a path of broken dreams strewn out behind him.”

I look at Coates. Any decent man would deny this or blush at such a ridiculous statement, but instead Coates is simply standing there with his arms crossed across his chest, beaming with joy.

“He's the family black sheep, you know,” Hamilton says, laughing.

“I'm not particularly surprised,” I say.

“Pardon me, will you?” Hamilton asks and then slips away at his wife's beckoning from across the room.

“It was nice meeting you,” I say to Coates and turn to go. But at the last moment, he catches my wrist.

I turn around and look at him. “What now?” I ask.

“Don't you want my assessment, Jane? Here I've been working so hard on it for you.”

“Not really.”

Coates laughs as though I've said something hilarious. “Exactly!”

“I'm sorry?” I say. I know I shouldn't let him goad me on, but I can't resist.

“That's exactly my assessment.”

“What is?”

“Jane, you're a very smart woman. You're ambitious, organized, well liked, successful, but you don't ask yourself questions if you don't like their answers.”

“What?”

“You lie to yourself.”

Chapter 4

L
ee is
standing in my doorway holding two pints of Ben and Jerry's and smiling guiltily.

“I know I was supposed to bring sandwiches,” he says, cringing. “But I just couldn't face it. Mom's got me on an egg-salad sandwich regimen I can't even discuss.” He brushes past me and flops down on my couch, putting his feet up on my coffee table. “I'm going to have to spend hours on the elliptical machine to make up for this, but I need some Chunky Monkey right now.”

I grab the other pint out of his hand and sneer. “You get Chunky Monkey, and I get reduced-fat vanilla yogurt?”

“It's better for your figure,” he says, sinking down into the cushions.

“Hey!”

“Now, Jane. You know if you got off your routine you'd be unhappy. I'm just watching out for you.” Charlie comes running out of my bedroom and jumps into Lee's lap. Lee pats his head absently and then puts him back on the floor.

I walk to the kitchen to get spoons. “Rough week?”

“The worst,” he says dramatically, burying his face in a throw pillow. “I just need some time to unwind.” I toss a spoon at him, and he lets it land on the couch next to him. He picks it up, then turns to me very seriously. “My mother is driving me crazy.”

“Mary Sue?” I sit down next to him and dig into my tub of frozen yogurt. “But she's so sweet,” I say through a mouthful of vanilla.

“She is sweet. But she is driving me crazy. She has completely taken over my life. It's like high school all over again, except this time she can't make me take Tina Elliot to the prom.”

“Huh?”

“She was the daughter of my mom's friend. She didn't have a date, so I had to take her or pay for my own car insurance for the entire summer,” he says, digging out a chunk of banana. “And I was saving up to buy a bread machine, so I didn't really have money to spare, you see.”

“A bread machine?”

“They were just out. Everyone who cared about fine food was getting one.” I nod. “She wore headgear.” He shudders.

I cringe. “What does this have to do with now?”

“My mother is trying to take over again. She has to be in control of everything. She wants to know where I am at all times. She spends all day cooking and gets mad when I don't eat an entire ham every night. She is redecorating,” he says, examining a bit of chocolate on his spoon. “She says my apartment is too eclectic.” He takes a deep, dramatic breath. “Jane, she hung flowered wallpaper in my bedroom.”

I nearly choke on my frozen yogurt, envisioning Lee Colbert in his new floral paradise. “Floral wallpaper?” I laugh. “Does it make you dream of English rose gardens?”

“I wouldn't know,” Lee says, rolling his eyes. “I'm sleeping on the couch.” My eyes widen in surprise. “Oh, come on, Jane. Have a little more faith in me. Even if it is my apartment, which she invaded uninvited, I'm not going to make my own mother sleep on the couch.”

“Uninvited? I thought you said—”

“
She
said. She said I forced her to come up here, Jane. What actually happened is I said that it was a shame she was so far away and would she like to come up and visit? She showed up with all of her stuff and doesn't seem to have any intention of leaving.”

“Oh, Lee, I'm sorry. Is there anywhere else she could go sometimes so you could get a break?”

“My aunt lives in New Jersey, so she'll go out there some, I guess,” he says, digging his spoon down into his pint. “But it looks like she's here for the long haul. And she's acting crazy, Jane,” he says, turning to me. “She's never been so clingy before. When I was growing up, she was always out at society functions and volunteering at the Historical Society. She let me do my own thing. But now it's like she's possessed. She wants to know where I'm going, what I'm doing, who I'm going with, and whether she can come.”

“She's going through a lot right now.” I look at him. He's biting his lip. I have no idea what to say. Why am I so bad at this? “And with moving up here, she's probably just having a hard time adjusting.” I take a deep breath. “Maybe she just needs some time, Lee.”

Lee stares straight ahead. “When she called and said she had cancer, it was like my heart stopped,” he says, looking down. “I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I felt numb.”

I look at him and squeeze his shoulder. I'm so glad he's talking about her cancer. I had begun to worry he was in denial.

“Jane, when my dad died, I thought I would never be happy again. I can't lose her too. This is just too soon, too sudden, and it scares me half to death.”

“Didn't she say that she has really good odds?” I say. I'm racking my brain. No one in my family has ever died early, and unfortunately, my words sound hollow and stupid. I keep searching.

He sighs and pinches his lips together. For a moment, I think he'll cry. He shakes himself, takes a deep breath, and continues. “She says they caught it in time. But I haven't been able to go to the doctor with her yet, so I'm not sure. She's awfully private, old-fashioned, you know, and keeps insisting I not come.”

I slide over and give him a side hug. He puts his head on my shoulder and quietly sniffles.

“It's going to be okay,” I say again and again in the quiet of my apartment.

After a while, he pulls back and wipes his face with his hands. “Sorry I'm such a mess.”

“Nonsense. You're not a mess.”

“It's just that she's so brave. Do you know how much her ‘bosoms' mean to her? She always says, ‘Dolly Parton ain't got nuthin' on me.'”

I burst out laughing, and so does he.

“And all I can do is complain about her. I'm a monster.”

“No, you're not. Tell you what. When anyone else asks you about how it's going, you be the hero. But with me, you tell the truth. You're not going to get through this all alone. And I won't judge you for hating floral wallpaper or for wondering why there's a crocheted doll on your toilet paper. I know you love her. I'll just listen and laugh with you.”

“Thanks, Jane,” he says.

I smile, thankful to have thought of some way to help my friend. Charlie whimpers at our feet and then jumps up and begins to kiss Lee's face again and again while Lee laughs.

“And I can rent this mutt out for a small monthly fee too if you need him.”

 

I like
to get into the office at least an hour early. It's my time to read the paper online, consult my day planner to see what the day has in store, and get some coffee into my veins. It's a great way to start the day and I look forward to the serenity of the quiet office. My assistant, Natalie, will be in about a half hour from now, and I want to get my tasks organized.

I take a sip of my coffee and begin to scan the
Times
online. I gasp, sputter, and spit out the coffee onto my desk. It's not that it's piping hot. It's the headline I just read:
BAD BOY PHILANTHROPIST
? The picture underneath it is of a handsome man smirking arrogantly—it's that guy I met the other night, Hamilton's nephew, Coates. I wipe up the coffee with a napkin from my desk, then read the article.

It reports that Coates Glassman is making waves in the New York socialite scene, but not just because he's handsome or a do-gooder. Sure, he gives away untold millions of the Glassman Foundation's money, but he also can't keep a personal assistant, and now two of his former assistants have banded together in a lawsuit against him, stating that he dismissed them unfairly without pay and asked them to work seventy-hour weeks with no overtime. The article also notes that Coates has angered many of his family members by converting to Christianity but that his behavior seems no better since this development. It seems the
Times
had no trouble finding people to give anonymous quotes about this self-absorbed behavior.

I roll my eyes. This is the problem with being a Christian. For every ten good deeds done in silence by humble, devoted followers, there is one yahoo who is publicly acting like an idiot and giving a bad name to all of us. I click on an article about time management strategies, hoping to calm down for a few moments before I begin work for the day, when my personal cell phone rings.

The screen flashes “Unknown” and I hesitate. I decide to answer. It's probably just a wrong number.

“Hello?”

“Hello. Jane Williams?”

“Yes?” I say.

“Jane, this is Matt Sherwin….”

A pause hangs in the air. I process what these two words mean. Matt. Sherwin. Okay, Jane. Don't panic.

“I'm from, uh, the charity?”

I recover. “Hello, Mr. Sherwin. Good to hear from you. Sorry about that.” Why is he calling me on this phone?

“Please call me Matt.”

We are both silent for a moment. What should I say?

“I'm so glad you called. Is there something I can help you with?” We publicists have to be good on our feet. That's why they pay us.

“Huh? Oh yeah. I just wanted to say, like, how important Aid World is to me, and I hoped that we could schedule a time to meet together.”

Aid World? The charity he represents is called World Aid. We'll have to work on that. “Sure. When's good for you? I'd love to meet to discuss
World Aid
.”

“I'm only just now back from Bali, so, like, maybe sometime this weekend?”

Meet during the weekend? A tad inconvenient, but oh well. “Sure. Love to. Bali? What were you doing there?” This is a classic trick. Make some chitchat with the client so that he feels important to and loved by your company.

“Bali? Oh right, Bali. There was this convention of actors who are concerned about, um, some animal there. What's it called? Do you know? It's the endangered one?”

“I'm sorry?”

“Oh, the animal I was trying to protect? In Bali? You know it?”

“No,” I answer slowly. “But isn't that great of you? You really have a heart for—”

“The giant sea turtle…or was it a yak? I think the yaks were in Tibet though.”

“Hmm,” I say, trying to sound interested.

“Can't be sure. Anyway, let's meet this weekend at the pool at the Hotel Gansevoort.”

My eyes get wide. The rooftop pool at the Hotel Gansevoort is the celebrity hangout of the moment, replete with bone-thin women and ultra-tan men. “Su-sure. What time?”

“Let's say Saturday at three, but I'll have Nina call you to confirm.”

I jot down, Nina to confirm. Three at Gansevoort. Who is Nina? “Splendid. It will be great to meet you and pick your brain about what you want to do to help with the Strike Hunger Campaign.”

“Yep. Um, bye.”

I hear a dial tone. “Bye-bye,” I say to no one. I've talked to the occasional celebrity now and then, but never anyone on his level and never on my personal cell phone. How did he get the number? What have I gotten myself into?