Dorothy Parker Drank Here (20 page)

T
ed fell backward, landing on his bottom. “Goddamn it,” he said. “Who
was
that?”

“My apologies, Teddy. I needed to see you right away, and I couldn't be terribly picky about the arrangements.”

“Shit, that hurts.”

“Don't be a child. Get up.”

He crawled to the chair and pulled himself into it. “You're going to kill me, you know that?”

“I think you're doing a fine job on your own.”

“You came to chastise me for not taking better care of myself?”

“Perish the thought. I have a vested interest in your demise, remember?”

Ted shifted his weight, trying to get comfortable. He had landed right on his coccyx and knew it was the kind of injury that should be iced, but he couldn't work up the stamina to care. “Maybe I should fall on my ass more often,” he said, reaching for his Vicodin. “For a second I almost forgot about the pain in my head.”

“You look dreadful,” she said.

“Don't get excited. I still have no intention of signing that damned book.”

She gave him a piercing look and he wondered if she sensed that he had considered—for at least a fleeting moment—what it would be like to live after death.

“I would love for you to sign it, my dear,” she said, “but I'm here for a different reason.”

“To be an even bigger pain in my ass?”

“Don't be churlish,” she said. “Now, where have you hidden your cigarettes? I think we could both use a smoke.”

“Gave them up, remember?”

“Then why do I smell stale smoke?”

“Pete brought me a whole box of excellent Nicaraguan cigars.”

“That will do.”

Ted stared at her. “Seriously? You want a cigar?”

“Why not?”

“And I suppose you'd like a cognac, too?”

“Thank you. I'd be delighted.”

Ted exhaled. The offer hadn't been serious, but what the hell. Having a cigar and a cognac seemed like an acceptable way to pass another hour in his life. He pulled himself out of the chair with great effort and poured them each a drink. Then he handed Dorothy Parker a cigar and a lighter.

“You're going to have to light it yourself.”

“Barbarian,” she said as she flicked the lighter. She puffed on the cigar until the tip ignited, then handed the lighter to Ted.

They spent the next several minutes drinking and smoking in silence.

“You were absolutely beastly to that girl.”

“What else is new?”

“That was despicable even by your standards.”

“I guess you're talking about what I did with those pages. If it
makes you feel any better, I very nearly changed my mind at the last second. But I couldn't let a moment of conscience get in the way.”

“Did you think about
her
?”

“Audrey?”

“No, Norah.”

“The TV producer?” he said. “Why should I?”

Dorothy Parker looked exasperated as she rested her cigar on the ashtray, and he wondered why she was so invested in this girl.

“The ‘TV producer' thought you liked her,” she said.

“I don't like
anyone
.”

“Yes, dear, but don't you think she has a lot to offer?”

He shrugged, remembering her face at dinner. She was so earnest it made him ache. But he didn't want to have remorse. Not over this. “She's nothing to me,” he said.

“You didn't answer the question.”

He shrugged. “She's okay, I suppose.”

“High praise.”

“Why do you care so much about this girl? I thought she was just a co-conspirator.”

Dorothy Parker picked up her cigar again and went silent for several minutes. Ted had the feeling she was thinking hard about what to say next, and he wasn't sure he wanted to hear it.

“Did Norah talk to you about her past at all?” she finally said.

“I don't think so. If she did, I wasn't listening.”

“She had no father, and lost her mother at a young age.”

“What am I supposed to do—befriend every orphan in New York?”

She stared at her cigar, and then stamped it out in the ashtray. “This is actually quite vile.”

“Guess that's why I like it.”

She sipped her drink again. “Ted, did you ever want to have a child?”

“People like you and me aren't meant to have kids.”

She stared into her drink for a long time. “I suspect you're right,” she said, looking remarkably sad. “Do you think you would have been a good father?”

“Unlikely,” he said, though in truth he had always wondered what would have happened if his first wife, Marlena, hadn't miscarried. Would a child have changed him?

“Teddy, I have to tell you something rather extraordinary.”

Extraordinary? He couldn't even muster fake enthusiasm for whatever she thought was so earth-shattering.

“Are you listening?” she said.

“Hanging on your every word.”

She put down her drink, stood, and walked over to him. “Norah is your daughter.”

He laughed. “That's preposterous.”

“Her mother's name was Sherry. She might have had a hand tremor when you met her.”

Ted went cold, trying to figure out how Dorothy Parker could possibly know about Sherry Wolfe. This had to be some kind of a trick.

“Norah was born in 1978, so it was probably 1977.”

The pain behind his eye turned sickening. She had the right year. Where on earth had she gotten all this information?

“She was studying biology at NYU.”

“Enough,” he said. Ted put down his drink and lowered his head. The room was spinning. “What's your game? Where did you learn all this?”

“There is no game,” she said.

“Why should I believe you?”

“You looked straight into her face. Surely you saw it—that distinctive high forehead, flat as a chalkboard. And those eyes—they're yours, Ted.”

He bent over at the waist and stared at the carpet. Then he closed his eyelids and saw her face as it looked in the restaurant. He envisioned her looking down and then slowly raising her head to peer at him. And there they were—his own eyes looking back at him. They were clearer, younger, prettier, but there was no mistaking it. His stomach lurched, and he sat back to give his organs more room. It took several minutes for the nausea to subside so that he could speak without getting sick.

“I have a daughter,” he said.

“Yes, you do.”

Ted remembered the conversation in his neurologist's office when he refused the surgery. At first, the doctor was condescending, explaining the necessity in simpler terms. Eventually, he turned grim and pushed his business card across the table, telling Ted to think about it. But he had made up his mind, and it felt like a relief. He would let himself die. It was so simple.

Ted looked at Dorothy Parker's cigar, snuffed out and bent in the ashtray, and understood that nothing felt simple anymore.

He glanced back at her. “This changes everything,” he said.

I
t was amazing how much dust an empty apartment could accumulate. Norah pushed her Swiffer around the hardwood floor and knew it was all there—months of her life still settling to earth: the pollen that she and Eric had brought in on the bottoms of their sneakers after going for a run, the dryer lint from his socks and underwear, the burnt toast crumbs from the day he left, the hotel carpet fibers she dragged in on the wheels of her suitcase. She pulled the filthy, static sheet out of its plastic grips and stuffed it into the garbage, telling herself she was going to get through this.

Norah washed her hands and opened a bottle of water to drown the dryness in her throat. She had suffered losses before and found the strength to go on. She tried to convince herself this time would be no different.

But of course it was, and she knew why. It was more than losing her job and not having Eric to lean on. It was because the dream about her father had vaporized. That one elusive prize—the thing she believed would complete her—was gone forever.

Norah sat down in front of her laptop and reread her résumé. Didi had given her some tips and she wanted to make a few changes
before heading out for brunch with Pamela Daniels, a friend she had met at a press event several years ago. Pamela worked at MSNBC and wanted to talk to Norah about a new show that was in the works. She seemed pretty sure she could get Norah in on the ground floor, if she was interested.

Norah started to retype her objective but found it hard to concentrate. What was it she had wanted to say about her goals?

The loud buzz of the intercom jolted her. She wasn't expecting anyone on a Saturday morning.

“Who is it?” she said, holding the
Talk
button.

She heard an unintelligible half syllable in a woman's voice.

“Repeat that,” Norah said.

“I said
Audrey
. Audrey Hudson.”

Norah stepped back, surprised. The buzzer sounded again.

“What are you doing here?” Norah asked.

“Can I come up?”

Norah sighed and buzzed her in, hoping Audrey would state her business quickly and leave. She looked at her watch. She had to leave pretty soon if she wanted to get to her brunch appointment on time.

Norah stood by the door to her apartment until she heard Audrey's sharp footsteps in the hallway. She stared out the peephole and saw her, looking harmless in a Columbia University sweatshirt and jeans, like a teenager with a woman's face. She carried a big red purse.

“How did you find me?” Norah said as she opened the door. “There must be thirty N. Wolfes in New York.”

“I'm a reporter, that's my job. Besides, it's really not that hard to find someone. Can I come in?”

Norah stood aside. “I have about ten minutes,” she said.

“Nice place,” Audrey said, stepping inside. “Lots of sunlight.”

Norah realized how bright her Brooklyn brownstone apartment looked compared to Audrey's East Side crypt, with its tiny blocked
windows. She hoped she would get to keep it. But of course, that would mean finding a new job soon.

“Thanks,” she said. “Why are you here?”

“I need your help.”

Great
, Norah thought.
The broken little bird lands in my nest looking for another free crumb
.

“I'm not sure there's anything I can do for you,” she said.

Audrey's narrow shoulders bunched up around her ears as she took in the rest of the apartment. It was if she were afraid the room would swallow her whole. Norah folded her arms. She was not going to rush to this woman's rescue.

Audrey cleared her throat. “I spoke to Ted,” she finally said. “I know what happened.”

“Good for you. I suppose you're back in love. Did the conspiracy to screw me over throw you back together? Are you having your gorgeously tragic happy ending just before he dies?”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Audrey said, “I could never forgive him. So, no, we're not reconciled, but I did call a truce. Mind if I sit down?”

“Actually, I do.”

“Please,” Audrey said. “It'll only take a few minutes.”

Norah shrugged, and led her to the uncomfortable wooden side chair no one ever sat in.

“I'm having trouble with the story,” Audrey said as she lowered herself onto the hard seat. She held her purse on her lap. “I have an editor at a national magazine interested, but she wants to see Dorothy Parker with her own eyes—”

“What a shame.”

“Norah—”

“Like I said, can't help you.”

Audrey put her handbag on the floor and leaned forward. “I have a proposition.”

“Not interested.”

“Listen to me,” Audrey said. “I already spoke to Ted about this. If you help me, he'll do your TV show.”

Norah laughed. “I've been down this road, Audrey. It leads nowhere.”

“He promised.”

“Thank you for stopping by.”

“This story is my only hope,” Audrey said. “Please.”

Norah shook her head. The helpless-victim act was simply not going to work on her. She went to the door and opened it.

“What am I going to do?” Audrey said.

“Don't know.”

“Come on. You must have some ideas. Can you at least show me the book again?”

“Nope,” Norah said, hoping Audrey would take the cue and leave.

“Why not?”

“I don't have it. It's back at the Algonquin, where it belongs.”

“If I went there, would I be able to conjure her?”

Norah laughed at the word
conjure
.

“He really will do your show,” Audrey said. “He'll do it for me.”

“Good-bye,” Norah said. “Take good care of Jim Beam.”

Audrey gave her one last long look and walked out the door. Norah watched as she disappeared down the hallway. It was the last chance for both of them.

Norah leaned against her door and wondered why Audrey thought she had even the slightest chance of persuading her to trust Ted again. Talk about a fool's errand. Of course, she might have done the very same thing herself. God knows she had a hard time giving up. Only, she would have found a way to make her argument more compelling . . . especially when approaching someone who had just been so royally screwed over. Was it possible Audrey hadn't thought of that?

“Wait a second!” Norah called down the hallway, even though she knew it was a long shot.

Audrey walked back into her field of view. “What is it?”

“I have a counterproposal. You tell Ted that if he does the show I'll get Dorothy Parker to appear for your editor.” Norah folded her arms. This was the moment of truth. If Audrey had been serious about getting Ted to appear on
Simon Janey Live
, she would say yes to this. If she said no, it meant that the two of them had once again planned to screw her over.

Audrey's eyes darted from side to side as she thought about it. “How do you know she'll do it?”

Norah shrugged. “That's the deal,” she said. “Take it or leave it.”

Audrey's tight face relaxed into a smile. “I'll take it!” she said.

—

B
y the time she shut the door, Norah was in a frenzy, carried away by her own exhilaration. This time, it could actually work. It
would
actually work. Ted would agree to do the show to save Audrey. After all, that was the only thing he truly wanted. She picked up her cell phone and called Didi to tell her the great news. When she got voice mail, she left an excited message to call her back.

Then she tried to call Pamela Daniels to cancel their brunch, as she didn't want to follow a job lead when the show was so close to being saved. It would be bad karma. But that went to voice mail, too. Norah decided she would just head over to the restaurant and tell Pamela in person. It was only about five blocks away, and it would be good to see her friend, even if she didn't think the timing was right for the interview.

A short time later, Norah walked into the restaurant and found Pamela already seated at a small table by the window, a Bloody Mary in front of her.

“Sorry I'm late,” Norah said. “It's been a crazy morning.”

Pamela, a divorced forty-year-old, tucked her neat blond hair behind her ear and smiled. “You look like you're in a good mood.”

“We're not getting canceled,” Norah said. “At least I don't think we are. There's been a tremendous development.”

“Seriously? What happened?”

“I haven't even told anyone, but I got us a guest that will make history.”

Pamela smiled, excited. “Who?”

“I really shouldn't say.”

“Come on. I tell you
everything
.”

It was true. Pamela was always completely forthright with her. Norah exhaled and leaned in. “Okay, but you have to swear—”

“On Toni's life,” she said, referring to her teenage daughter.

Norah leaned back and smiled. “It's Ted Shriver,” she said, knowing the impact it would have.

Pamela's eyes went wide. “How did you manage that?”

“Long story, but the upshot is that I don't feel right interviewing for the MSNBC job, not when there's such a strong chance
SJL
will make it.”

“Listen, Norah,” Pamela said. “I think it's tremendous that you landed such an astounding guest. And I hope
Simon Janey
stays on the air for the next twenty years. But as your friend, I need to tell you that you should still interview for this job. It's an amazing opportunity—an edgy news and opinion show with a woman anchor who's just starting to make a name for herself. She's brilliant, and I think it's going to be huge. With my recommendation—”

“I understand, and I appreciate it. But it's just not the right timing. I have to put everything into saving
SJL
.”

“I already told the host about you and she's dying to meet you.”

“I hope this doesn't put you in a bad position.”

“It's not that,” Pamela said. “I just think you're being rash. Opportunities like this don't come along very often. Beth Barbieri got wind
of it and has been begging me to get her in. I've been blowing her off because I think you're better for it.”

“Beth is great,” Norah said. She didn't know the woman that well but had heard she was very smart and very hyper.

“You're better.”

“I don't know about that.”

“Don't be modest. I'm talking about a job you could sink your teeth into.”

“Can you just give me a week or so? By then I'll know if
SJL
is going to make it.”

Pamela sighed. “I can try, but I can't make any guarantees they won't offer the job to someone else while you're dragging your feet.”

“I understand.” Norah reached out and grabbed her friend's arm. “And truly, I'm so grateful.”

Pamela picked up a menu and handed it to Norah. “I hope you're not making a mistake.”

—

O
n her way home from the restaurant, Norah was about to take out her cell phone to try Didi again when she got distracted by a cute guy walking by with an even cuter dog. She wasn't entirely sure the man was straight, but it was probably better if he wasn't. Flirting with someone when she was this hyper would only get her into trouble.

The dog, however, was irresistible. It was a little white-coated terrier that looked like a stuffed animal, with black eyes and a black button nose.

“What breed is this?” she said as she bent to give it a pat.

“She's a West Highland,” he said. “A real diva. We call her Celine Dion.”

Norah smiled, grateful for the gentle but clear heads-up about his sexual orientation. “I love that she has a first and last name. I had a Cavalier King Charles I called Jim Beam.”

“Cute,” he said. “You must have adored him.”

“I miss him.”

“I hope he didn't suffer.”

“Oh, he didn't pass on. I had to give him away.”

“That's rough, too,” the guy said, giving the leash a gentle tug to keep the dog from wandering into the street. “But I'm sure you gave him to someone you trust.”

Trust Audrey? Norah opened her mouth to respond and couldn't think of a thing to say. She gave the guy a tight smile and walked away.

As she headed back home, Norah's euphoria dissipated like vapor, and she was aware of a creeping anxiety taking its place. Had she done the right thing in giving Jim Beam to Audrey? Yes, she told herself. Audrey was tightly wrapped, but she would dote on the pup.

Still, the nervousness wouldn't lift, and Norah had to face the source. It was Audrey's volatility. Would she really come through on her promise?

Norah took out her cell phone to see if Didi had called her back. No messages. Before trying her again, she wanted to capture her earlier enthusiasm. But no matter how much she tried to tell herself that everything was fine, she knew she had to double-check. She called Audrey's number.