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Sharpe

      With a haughty sniff, I sent it off. Who did he think he was? He was just some no-name writer telling me how to do my job. I looked down at the screen—a new message was blinking—it was from Colin Bates. Suddenly I began to feel painfully sober. I read nervously.

      Hey Lena,

      Not a problem. Just let me know when you can. And please, call me Colin.

      —cb

      What? I was beyond confused. Why was he playing this humble act?

      I picked up his book, realizing that I hadn’t even looked at it yet. It was plain and relatively thin, with the author’s name printed inconspicuously below the title My Indian Summer. Oh God, I thought, no doubt it was the poor little rich boy’s story of his fab summer vacation!

      I flipped to the back—okay, so it had gotten some good reviews, even from the Times (but it wasn’t Kakutani so it didn’t count as much, I consoled myself). On the inside flap, there was a picture of a man’s legs from the knees down. Underneath, it read: “A view of the author from the perspective of his dog, Emmylou. The two reside in Grafton, Vermont, where they enjoy playing Frisbee and taking long afternoon naps.” I found myself smiling in spite of myself. I responded:

      Colin,

      Sorry for the terse message before. I was caught off guard when Chase handed over the story—just trying to get my bearings. Thanks for understanding.

      Lena

      Okay, so I wasn’t playing hardball, but Jesus, after my work drama Friday and my brunch catharsis earlier that day, I was feeling pretty drained. Colin responded in moments. This was getting weird.

      Lena,

      Please—you’re the one stuck with documenting my boring life! Anyway, I have to ask, what’s the deal with Chase? I think he probably left me 20 messages about what I should wear for the sit-down interview. Strange one, no?

      —cb

      I was starting to like this guy. I wondered if he lived in a farmhouse. I could almost picture him lounging on a front-porch swing looking out at an apple orchard…no! I scolded myself. I had made a pact with myself—it was time to face reality. This was business. I sat up straight and began typing purposefully.

      Colin,

      If you wouldn’t mind, I’ll need you to provide me with a list of friends, family members, fellow writers, etc. that we can interview for background material. You can forward me the information via this e-mail address.

      Lena

      There. That wasn’t so hard.

      Lena,

      Sure, no problem. Though, I have to say I feel a little silly getting all this attention. You’re going to know everything about me and we’ve never met. I will get to meet you, won’t I?

      —cb

      I thought for a moment about how active my imagination could be, how much trouble and heartache it had caused me over the years. And then gradually, imperceptibly, I found myself thinking about gingham tablecloths, jars of apple butter, and crickets at night. Dammit.

      chapter 4

      “Oh, Lena,” Tess said wearily as she took a glass of champagne from a circulating waiter.

      We sat down on a red velvet banquette and surveyed the crowd—a quintessential Parker production, more commonly known as a press party.

      I didn’t respond to Tess. I regretted having said anything to her at all about Colin and tried to look preoccupied with the scene around us, but that was almost futile. I had been to so many of these types of events, I was on a first-name basis with the waitstaff. It was always the same party with the same food—an assortment of tuna tartare on toast, mini quiches, and duck spring rolls. The cast of characters rarely changed—the usual mix of suit-wearing executives, a cluster of chain-smoking models, the stray B-list actor, and the odd club kid or two thrown in for the illusion of street cred.

      “Hey, Lena, I’m sorry.” Tess touched my arm gently. “It’s just that I thought you were going to try to stop getting ahead of yourself. I don’t want to see you get hurt again, you know?” Why did the avoidance of “getting hurt” always involve some other type of pain? I wondered.

      “Tess, don’t worry. I just think he’s intriguing. He’s a writer. He lives in the country. He has a golden retriever, for God’s sake,” I said. “He couldn’t be more different than Nick.”

      “Well, that’s a good start,” she said.

      “Besides, I haven’t even seen him. It’s fun just to daydream, you know?” I said lightly. In fact, I had not responded to Colin’s last e-mail immediately for this very reason. The sheer ambiguity of our exchange allowed me countless fantastical projections about just who Colin Bates was and how our obvious connection would evolve. Could he have soulful gray-green eyes and a talent for making homemade pasta? Why of course! These questions (and my imagination’s affirmative answers) could go on for days. I would sit at my desk happily sorting faxes or stapling Nadine’s “memos” fueled by the giddy daydreams of Colin reading to me from his new manuscript as we slurped down freshly made gnocchi. Sigh.

      “Just promise me you’ll go slowly, okay?” Tess said, not giving up.

      “Of course,” I said, but she eyed me suspiciously. “I swear, Tess!” I said, and looked away.

      Circles of guests performing their festive obligations collided around us. I noticed a woman wearing men’s pinstripe pants and a tie wrapped around her chest like a bandeau top. A pencil-thin woman balanced a toddler on one hip and chatted on a cell phone—doing her best Jade Jagger-esque approximation of a bohemian parent. I spotted Parker expertly weaving her way through the crowd toward us, clipboard in hand, of course. She was in her element—a beautiful space, beautiful people and, most importantly, the position of authority to determine exactly who would be selected to enjoy it all. (I felt sure if Sleazy Cheese worked for Parker, he would be busy scrubbing floors in the back.)

      “Thanks for coming, you guys—my agency friend flaked out on me again so we’re a little short on the model quotient, but you guys help fill the space,” she said brightly.

      Tess and I shared a mental eye roll. It wasn’t personal— Parker was like a choreographer and press events were her ballet. To her, Tess and I were the klutzy understudies that always came through when the prima donna ballerinas got sick—or, in this case, got last-minute bookings for a Stuff magazine photo shoot. Parker adjusted her headset and perched herself on a windowsill cluttered with party detritus.

      “I’m also glad you’re both here because I wanted to talk a little bit more about the dresses.”

      And we were trapped. Tess flagged the waiter for another round and we girded ourselves, secretly praying for a heated coat-check incident to carry Parker and her premarital monologues away. As if a sign from God, Tess’s cell phone interrupted Parker’s intense dissection of the difference between periwinkle and robin’s-egg blue.

      “Hey, Parker—I’m so sorry. I’ve really got to go,” Tess announced, snapping her cell phone shut. “I’m going to go meet Stanley for a nightcap at the Knickerbocker.” She gave me a heartfelt glance and with a kiss to each cheek she was gone.

      “It’s almost impossible to sit the two of you down long enough to go over anything.” Parker looked annoyed.

      “Actually, Parker, we haven’t seen very much of you since the engagement.”

      “What?” She looked slightly offended. “I’ve been busy, Lena. Getting married is a full-time job. Brad and I have practically every weekend booked with appointments these days.” It must be so taxing to explain these things to a hopelessly single person….

      “So, are

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