Chapter 3
Chapter Three
B ack in California, it was nearly eleven at night. The American Literary Association Gala had taken a different direction. Tired and older folks had packed up their BMWs, Porsches, Mercedes Benzes, and Bentleys and left the more youthful literary generation to drink cocktails beneath a pregnant moon. Valerie felt loose and easy, like melted caramel, and she watched with relief as the catering crew packed up their trucks and prepared to leave. Most everyone would be gone by midnight, save for a few stragglers. By two or three, Valerie would be home in the Mission District. Maybe she’d watch bad television. Perhaps she’d make herself a microwavable burrito. Maybe she’d celebrate with twelve hours of sleep.
“Great event, Val.” Mikey was cleaning the counter with a rag. He had a secret cocktail for himself, hidden behind the espresso machine, but Valerie didn’t care.
Valerie’s heart felt tender toward Mikey. She’d known him for years. And wasn’t it her fault for agreeing to go out with him in the first place?
“Thanks,” she said. “You don’t have time to make me one of your to-die-for Negronis, do you?”
Mike knocked his knuckles against the counter. “Anything for my favorite event planner.”
Valerie smiled and scanned the crowd as he stirred one up. On the opposite side of the room was the arrogant man she’d briefly met before his iconic speech. He held court for five people in publishing who couldn’t hold a candle to his charisma or the way he wore his tux. It was something about the finesse with which he used his hands and the way he wagged his thick black eyebrows. Valerie told herself, don’t stare at him. But it was almost impossible to look away.
That was when he caught her staring. Immediately, his story stalled, and he smiled slowly, like a predator. Valerie’s stomach twisted up. Mikey tapped her Negroni on the counter, and she thanked him and filled her mouth with bitterness as her heart thumped. Mikey was saying something about cleanup. He was saying something else about hanging out later that week. But Valerie was too captivated with the stranger to do anything but nod and mutter incoherent platitudes. Mike was soon preoccupied with a customer.
And that was when the handsome stranger excused himself from his groupies and strode across the party to her.
Valerie forced her eyes away from him. She touched her earpiece and muttered something into it, pretending to give instructions. She considered running to the back room to hide until he left. He’s bad news. But before she could decide, he stood directly in front of her. She could smell him. Finally, she forced her head around to gaze into his eyes. His smile was like Clark Gable’s.
“I wasn’t lying when I said this was quite a party,” he said. “You should be proud.”
Valerie arched her eyebrow and tried to make herself seem mysterious and cool. “That was quite a speech. You should be proud, too.”
The man’s face broke into a smile. “I never know what I’m going to say when I get up in front of a crowd. I find it fascinating to throw myself into a situation and see what happens.”
“I threw this party together in the same way,” Valerie said.
The man burst into laughter and squeezed his eyes shut. It was obviously not true. Valerie had spent hundreds, if not thousands, of hours on the logistics of this party. She’d written email after email. She’d untangled others’ mistakes (as well as her own).
“What’s your name?” Valerie asked. She felt bold. Maybe he could be a future client. Perhaps he’ll need me for his business events or his wedding to his mistress when he leaves his first wife. She saw no wedding band on his left hand, which meant nothing to men like him.
But he loves to read. Why was that so attractive to Valerie?
The man stuck his hand out to shake hers. “Saul Isaacson. Wonderful to meet you, Valerie Sutton.”
His hand was soft and warm. Valerie imagined letting her left hand rest in his for the next hour. She imagined falling asleep with her head on his shoulder.
“You work as an editor?” she asked.
“That’s right.”
“Have you edited any books I might have read?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Are you a big reader?” he asked.
“Yes,” she lied. She’d read no more than three books this year. But she’d purchased at least twelve from her local San Francisco shop because something about a bookstore was so inviting. It made her feel connected to her mother back in Nantucket and the Sutton Book Club. It made her feel connected to her childhood of adventure and stories. Before everything had splintered apart.
“I edited Hagert’s A Formidable Logic ,” he said. “And I’m in the middle of editing an English translation of a French novel. The translator is a friend of mine and a real talent.”
“Do you speak French?”
“A bit,” he said. “Do you?”
“All I do is plan events,” Valerie said. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever really known how to do.”
“It’s a unique skill, don’t you think?” the man asked. “Bringing people together. Making sure everything happens right on time. It’s a bit like planning the future.” He laughed. “Is that the reason you got into it? Fear of the future? Your need to control it?”
Valerie flared her nostrils and thought, I can’t let this man get into my head. I can’t let him diagnose me.
“Think about it,” he went on. Either he didn’t notice her silence, or he relished it. “In planning events, you’re controlling everything: the music, the food we eat, the drinks we can have, what time we can all go home. For a finite yet beautiful period, everything is pre-arranged. And within this pre-arrangement, you allow your guests to be free. And, I presume, yourself.”
“I haven’t been free all night,” Valerie said.
“But you have,” Saul said. “You’ve been preoccupied with all of us, and therefore free of yourself.”
He’s got me.
“Who says I want to be free from myself?”
Saul smiled. “Isn’t it the greatest gift of all? Stepping away from yourself? Pretending everything that’s happened to you didn’t happen at all?”
Valerie filled her mouth with Negroni and tried to force her eyes away from his, but it was as though he’d cast a spell on her. She’d suddenly begun to imagine them later tonight, sitting up late in his penthouse apartment (or mansion by the ocean; he probably had both), playing linguistical gymnastics and flirting in ways only handsome, arrogant men truly could.
He probably cast this spell on women all the time.
From the other side of the bar, she could feel Mikey’s eyes upon them. Was he jealous? Or was he worried?
“I assume you’ve heard about the book I’m slated to edit next,” Saul said.
Valerie raised her eyebrows and considered telling him she knew all about it. But she didn’t have enough knowledge of the literary community to lie, so she said, “Enlighten me.”
Saul smiled. “It’s a memoir from a very famous American.”
“Brad Pitt?”
Saul cackled. “You’re funny. Your humor isn’t covered in the book. Maybe it should be. Maybe that would lighten things up a bit.”
Valerie’s smile dropped like a glass off the counter. She blinked at him. What’s he talking about? “I’m sorry?”
“I shouldn’t be talking to you about my newest projects,” Saul said. “We haven’t even announced the collaboration on social media. Publishers Marketplace isn’t even privy.”
Valerie’s mouth was dry with alarm. Something about the glint in his eyes told her he’d been waiting to drop this bomb all night.
It was likely Saul didn’t plan to tell her anything else. He wanted her to put the pieces together. He wanted her to say it.
It didn’t take long for it to click.
Valerie filled her lungs. “My father is writing a book, I guess?”
Saul set down his drink and put his large hands together in applause. “Brilliant, Valerie. Your father does mention how brilliant you are. But what else does he say about that brilliance?” He feigned thoughtfulness and tilted his head. “It escapes me. Oh, but I shouldn’t be telling you this. What good is an NDA if I don’t uphold it?”
Valerie thought she was going to throw up. This man doesn’t want to date me. He doesn’t want anything to do with me. He probably dates twenty-year-olds and has a rich wife at home. He just wants to tease me. He just wants to remind me that he—a handsome man of wealth—always has immense power over me. And now, he knows my family’s stories, too.
“I take it your father didn’t tell you anything about this little project, did he?” Saul asked.
Valerie gripped her cocktail glass hard. She thrummed with adrenaline.
“I can’t wait for you to peep it,” Saul said. “It’s so illuminating about your family. It opens a window on the whole deal.”
I knew Victor Sutton would ruin us again. I knew he was out to get us.
Valerie was dizzy with anger, so crazy about it that she struggled to remember the next moments of her life even a few minutes after the fact. Perhaps she was possessed when she raised her cocktail glass and doused Saul Isaacson with what was left of her Negroni. Maybe she wasn’t fully herself when she glared at him as red-brown liquid dripped from his nose and the ends of his hair.
From down the bar came a gasp from one of Saul’s colleagues. “What on earth did you do?” she demanded of Valerie.
Valerie felt it like a crash in her stomach. She blinked at Saul’s ruined tuxedo and glistening face, at the empty cocktail glass in her hand, and at Mikey, who gaped at her with surprise. A small crowd gathered around them. Gossip swirled around the event. I’ve done it again. I’ve ruined myself. After all this work, I’m through.
But Valerie refused to show her remorse. Not in front of this man. She raised her chin and said, “I hope you have a wonderful rest of your evening, Mr. Isaacson.” And she turned on a heel and walked with as much ease and seduction as she could—away from Saul and the flurry of guests. Very soon, she was sequestered in the back room of the building where the kitchen and bathrooms were, huddled behind a locked door as tears ran down her cheeks. What have I done? What am I going to do?